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THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


INSCRIBED    TO 


THE   SHADE   OF  BYRON. 


BY   HENRY  /MORFORD. 


By  my  troth,  I'll  go  with  thee  to  the  lane's  pnd :  if  rongn  talk 
oftend  thee,  we  '11  have  very  little  of  it." 
MEASURE  FOR  M 

The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  \ 

Make  instrument*  to  scourge  us.'' 


NEW   YORK: 
BURGESS,    STRl  &    C  O., 

222  BRO  \ 

1  & 


THE  REST  OP  DON  JUAN, 


INSCRIBED    TO 


THE  SHADE  OF  BYRON, 


BY   HENRY   MORFORD. 


By  my  troth,  I  '11  go  with  thee  to  the  lane's  end :  if  rough  talk 
offend  thee,  we  '11  have  very  little  of  it." 

MEASURE  FOR  MEASURK. 

The  gods  are  just,  and  of  our  pleasant  vices 
Make  instruments  to  scourge  us." 

KING  LEAR. 


NEW  YORK: 

BURGESS,    STRINGER,    &    CO., 

222   BROADWAY,   CORNER  OF  ANN   STREET. 
1846. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846, 

BY    HENRY    MORFORD, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States,  in  and  for  the  District 

of  New  Jersey. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


CANTO  I. 
i. 

DON  JUAN  once  again  :  'tis  hard  beginning 
What  may  grow  easy  as  the  work  is  doing, 

And  the  assertion  may  be  proved  in  sinning, 

Drinking,  in  smoking,  wearing  boots,  and  wooing, 

It  may  be  quite  as  hard  to  start  your  meaning 
When  such  a  mixture  as  the  Don  is  brewing; 

I  know  no  way  to  save  the  critic's  rising, 

Except  the  hackneyed  theme— apologizing  ! 

II. 

A  new  hand  on  the  editorial  page 

Runs  close  upon  the  old  one's  valedictory, 

A  new  form  strides  across  the  mimic  stage, 

A  new  voice  thrills  you  at  Stoke  Hampton  recto- 

And  a  new  general,  stirring  soldier's  rage,         [ry, 
Points  out  the  usual  share  of  blood  and  victory  : 

They  all  apologize — a  doubtful  matter 

Whether  they  leave  the  world  wiser  or  better. 

III. 

And  yet  apologies  are  indispensable 
To  answer  one  end  at  the  very  least : 

If  the  new  work  is  something  reprehensible 
In  point  of  valor,  genius,  wit,  or  haste — 

If  the  prime  mover  is  but  fully  sensible 

Of  all  that  may  give  slander's  tongue  a  taste — 

The  morsel  may  be  spoiled  by  this  forestalling, 

And  the  keen  critic  cheated  of  his  calling. 

IV. 

Telling  us  something  that  we  know  already, 
Though  often  practised,  only  proves  a  bore, 

Unless  our  own  praise  keeps  the  plummet  steady, 
And  then  how  eagerly  we  gape  for  more  ! 

For  never  yet  the  soul  but  drank  and  fed,  ay, 
Gorged  to  fresh  fulness  on  the  sweetened  store, 

Forgetting  truth  in  vanity,  and  shame 

In  the  fresh  promise  of  a  glorious  name. 

V. 

That  thirst  for  new  things,  that  insatiate  yearning 
For  that  which  has  not  been,  and  only  lives 

In  the  unquiet  bosom's  restless  burning, 
Is  but  a  throb  the  mighty  engine  gives, 

Which  to  the  past  all  things  of  earth  is  turning, 
Digging  a  wide  grave  for  the  swarming  hives 

Of  all  things  human — hope,  and  life,  and  breath — 

And  yet,  they  say,  shall  dig  a  grave  for  death. 

VI. 

That  thirst  for  new  things,  which  but  yesterday 
Turned  o'er  the  empires  that  the  conquerors  built, 


Has  meaner  office  than  to  tear  away 

The  gilding  from  old  sceptres  ere  they  melt — 

An  humbler  task  than  bidding  murderers  pray, 
Rewarding  virtue  and  pursuing  guilt : 

It  makes  us  scorn  our  great-grandfathers'  capers, 

And  read  new  novels  and  new  morning  papers ! 

VII. 

Because  I  fault  myself,  I  have  a  hope 

Ann  street,  and  Wall,  and  Nassau,  will  be  quiet, 
Or  praise  if  they  review :  their  praising  scope 

May  be  the  smaller  that  I  do  not  buy  it ; 
But  kindly  blame  I  thank,  and  those  who  grope 

For  bitterness  will  find  that  I  defy  it : 
Not  having  a  distinguished  name  to  spoil, 
I  shall  care  less  if  all  the  critics  broil. 

VIII. 

Yet  my  own  words  can  not  anticipate 

All  that  kind  friends  shall  honor  me  by  finding, 

!  shrink  not  from  the  ordeal  of  my  fate, 
Not  half  too  bright  to  profit  well  by  grinding, 

And  when  well  polished  by  the  scoffer's  sight, 
His  scoffs  shall  pass  as  not  well  worth  the  mind- 

Or  at  the  least  as  pointing  landmarks  given    [ing ; 

To  rescue  the  poor  sleeper  from  oblivion. 

IX. 

Oblivion  of  the  soul!  what  abject  grief, 

What  sorrow  o'er  the  soul  must  brood  and  black- 
Before  we  hug  the  horrible  belief  [en, 

That  the  immortal  part  shall  ne'er  awaken, 
That  an  existence  happily  so  brief 

Is  all  that  man  with  angels  has  partaken, 
Leaving  but  one  abyss  for  all  creation, 
The  atheist  darkness  of  annihilation  ! 

X. 

We  would  not  be  as  nothing — would  not  be 
Forgotten  in  time's  stir,  and  din,  and  bustle — 

Would  not  pass  onward  in  mad  ecstasy 

With  the  unthinking  world  that  round  us  hustle — 

Would  not  die  as  the  leaves  that  every  day 
Beneath  the  hurried  tread  in  autumn  rustle — 

We  would  not  be  forgotten  :  such  transition 

From  light  to  shade  is  not  our  disposition. 

XI. 

It  may  be  rough  amusement  setting  fire 

To  a  small  town  some  pleasant  summer's  day, 

But  if  the  bosom  burns  with  a  desire 

For  that  which  will  not  come  another  way, 

Namely — remembrance  :  light  up  dome  and  spire  ! 
Let  red  destruction  round  the  ruins  play  ! 

Curses  and  execrations  be  your  lot — 

Better  this  infamy  than  be  forgot ! 


&594O16 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XII. 

So  reasons  half  the  world  ;  the  other  half— 
Good-hearted  mortals — shed  one  tear  apiece, 

'Tis  all  they  can  afford,  and  then  they  laugh 
At  something  laughable  in  his  caprice : 

Declare  that,  with  a  little  finer  stuff, 

He  might  have  been  a  dashing  man  with  ease ; 

And  while  the  law  hangs  up  the  very  bad  man, 

The  world  regrets  the  philosophic  madman. 

XIII. 

Pages  of  jurisprudence  and  of  crime  ! 

How  might  they  bear  their  damning  proof  of  this  ! 
How  might  they  tell  us,  many,  many  a  time, 

Of  this  mistaken  approbativeness 
That  fosters  foul  thoughts  in  the  growing  slime 

Where  murder  springs  from  an  illicit  kiss  ! 
That  looks  on  blood,  however  shed,  as  noble, 
And  pays  the  murderer  richly  for  his  trouble  ! 

XIV. 

Then  we  grow  used  to  blood :  so  one  by  one 
Spring  up  effects  :  the  closing  scene  of  all 

Lets  loose  the  sympathetic  tide  to  run 
Through  bosoms  formed  of  mingled  pride  and 

The  life  that  is  so  freely  lost  and  won  [gall ; 

Whenever  Justice  lets  her  dagger  fall, 

Has  little  sacredness  to  be  its  guard, 

While  law,  in  punishing,  secures  reward. 

XV. 

No  more,  to  prove  that  we  love  notoriety, 
For  every  day  proves  that  most  faithfully 

In  every  movement  of  our  famed  society — 
In  fashion,  with  her  pretty  foppery; 

In  politics,  religion,  and  sobriety ; 

In  mathematics  and  philosophy  ;  [bling, 

The  statesman's  brawling  and  the  lawyer's  quib- 

And  last,  not  least,  in  my  own  kind  of  scribbling. 

XVI. 

I'm  back  again — just  where  we  all  return 
In  love  and  in  importance,  back  to  Ego ; 

That's  "  I."  they  say  in  Latin,  so  I  learn 

What  I  learned  not  at  school ;  you  know  that  we 

Just  far  enough  to  learn  at  last  to  scorn  [go 

All  save  ourselves,  like  Sterne's  old  knight  Diego  : 

*Tis  an  old  story  ;  if  you  can  not  find  it, 

I've  made  the  rhyme  out,  and  you  need  not  mind  it. 

XVII. 

Don  Juan  once  again  :  and  by  my  hand  ! 

There  is  a  world  of  sadness  in  the  thought — 
That  he  at  whose  half-idolized  command 

The  frostwork  fancies  of  the  name  were  wrought, 
Has  cone  the  ashes  of  his  fires  to  blend 

With  the  cold  dust  that  shall  caress  him  not, 
But  lie  upon  his  breast  with  the  same  force 
That  makes  the  prison  of  the  miser's  corse ! 

XVIII. 

This  makes  the  sadness  of  a  retrospect 

In  all  life's  changes — what  has  passed  since  then  ? 

It  is  a  saddening  grief  to  recollect 

That  when  the  gliding  and  creative  pen 

The  mimic  page  with  his  last  stanza  decked, 
Leaving  his  task  so  much  unfinished — then, 

Then  BYRON  lived,  and  now  he  lives  no  more, 

And  other  temples  wear  the  wreath  he  wore  ! 

XIX. 
Ah  !  not  his  wreath  of  fame,  for  he  has  borne 

That  to  his  rest :  ah  !  not  his  wreath  of  power, 
For  the  decaying  hand  that,  spent  and  worn, 

Could  trace  so  well  the  faded  leaf  and  flower, 


Moulders  in  night  that  knows  no  waking  morn, 

And  lies  as  nerveless  as  at  dying  hour ; 
And  yet,  believe  me,  he  has  left  a  wreath 
Whose  legacy  is  beautiful  in  death  : 

XX. 

The  wreath  of  toil,  the  midnight  vigil  kept 

By  eyes  that  well  might  claim  an  hour's  repose, 

The  face  that  tells  how  sadly  they  have  wept, 
The  form  that  lies  not  down  at  evening's  close, 

The  languor  oft  that  o'er  the  spirit  crept, 

And  lingers  yet,  with  fevered  starts  and  throes — 

These  are  the  legacy  he  held  the  while, 

All  faded  flowers  in  the  wreath  of  toil. 

XXI. 

And  they  were  his  :  he  had  the  corsair's  soul 
Of  haughty  sternness,  fit  for  wilder  times  ; 

Passions  like  his,  that  never  brooked  control ; 
Passions,  well  told  in  his  heroic  rhymes ; 

With  many  a  virtue  beckoning  to  the  goal, 

And  less,  by  far  less,  than  his  thousand  crimes : 

His  dust  is  mingled  with  the  dust  he  trod — 

His  memory  is  with  us,  and  with  God  ! 

XXII. 

So  circumstances  form  the  outward  man, 
And  bend  the  inner  even  to  their  will  ; 

That  one  short  hour  prepared  the  course  he  ran 
For  a  momentous  weight  of  good  or  ill — 

Good,  if  applied  as  few  of  mortals  can, 
But  far  too  apt  the  struggling  heart  to  fill 

With  dark  repinings,  and  with  vain  regrets 

That  know  no  solace  but  destructive  fate's. 

XXIII. 

One  throe  at  birth,  one  moment  of  grimace, 
Unkind  and  false  in  her  who  bore  him,  made 

A  death-blow  to  his  step  of  natural  grace, 
Deformed  him  in  the  steps  he  came  to  tread 

In  his  ancestral  halls ;  and  in  the  place 
Of  fond  maternal  kindness,  on  his  head 

Vented  unkindly  scorn,  ay,  scoff  and  jeer 

For  the  misfortune  that  had  claimed  a  tear. 

XXIV. 

And  it  is  hard  to  be  as  others  are  not, 

To  own  deformity,  however  slight, 
To  feel  a  yearning  for  something  we  dare  not — 

Lest  others  scoff  at  some  unwonted  sight — 
To  fear  slight  insults  that  the  happy  fear  not, 

To  shrink  at  every  look,  glancing  or  light — 
Hard  for  the  common  herd — but  oh,  for  those 
Whose  very  being  in  affection  grows  ! 

XXV. 

I  would  not  scoff  the  world  as  some  men  scoff; 

There  are  true  hearts  and  kindly  feelings  in  it; 
There  are  affections  true  and  kind  enough 

To  calm  to  pleasure  every  troubled  minute 
For  some,  and  not  for  others ;  pain  glides  off 

From  gay,  light  bosoms,  while  the  deeper  win  it, 
And  riot,  as  a  luxury,  in  grief, 
Praying  for  what  they  scorn — rest  and  relief. 

XXVI. 

For  grief  has  luxury,  and  stern  reserve 

May  even  own  the  pride  of  generous  kindness  j 

Seldom  without  a  palling  stroke  we  swerve 
To  wilful,  cold  misanthropy  and  blindness, 

And  yet  the  merest  badinage  may  serve         [ness  i 
To  make  men  querulous  in  their  dreams  of  grand- 
j  Vide,  those  I  could  point  you  out — and  would, 

If  personating  might  do  any  good. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XXVII. 
I'm  something  so  myself,  when  I  remove 

The  covering  of  romance  from  my  feelings, 
I  find  that  vanity  and  pure  self-love 

Are  something  very  like  divine  revealings, 
As  tightly  grasping  and  as  hard  to  move 

As  well-fed  clerk  amid  his  office  stealings, 
Who  filched  the  spoils  last  year  with  the  majority, 
And  cringes  for  a  hope  in  the  minority. 

XXVIII. 
But  Byron  died  in  Greece,  and  such  a  death 

Was  meet  for  such  a  life  as  Byron  lived, 
It  had  been  mockery,  when  he  gave  his  breath — 

Had  his  tormenters  by  his  death-couch  grieved. 
England,  the  isle  that  held  his  blasted  wreath, 

Was  no  place  for  deceiving  and  deceived — 
No  place  where  he  might  sink  to  rest,  whose  brow 
Was  witness  of  the  words,  "  i  must  sleep  now." 

XXIX. 

Tis  sweet  to  die  at  home,  sweet  to  lie  down 
Amid  our  household  scenes  to  sleep  for  ever, 

With  murmuring  voices  breathing  of  our  own 
O'er  the  bright  pebbles  of  a  native  river ; 

Death-bed  for   Scott,  with  Tweed's  low  rippling 

streams 
Soothing  his  sleep,  "  after  life's  fitful  fever," 

For  Tweed  had  shared  in  the  last  minstrel's  themes, 

And  Scott  loved  all  Scotia's  romantic  streams. 

XXX. 

And  Scotia  loved  him,  for  his  kindly  heart 
And  the  rich  legacy  of  love  he  gave  her — 

In  the  bright  legends  that  shall  ne'er  depart, 
While  men  shall  hold  the  beautiful  in  favor — 

That  ne'er  shall  cease  to  bind  the  brows  of  art 
So  long  as  Truth  may  worship  or  may  save  her, 

For  Scotia  knew  the  legends  Scott  rehearses — 

Draw  travellers'  pilgrimage  and  travellers'  purses. 

XXXI. 

They  told  that  he  was  dead — it  was  a  blow 
To  every  man  who  owned  him  Scotland's  child, 

From  plaided  herdsman  on  the  border  knowe 
To  the  dark  huntsman  in  Blair  Athol's  wild ; 

the  ploughman  ceased  to  whistle  at  his  plough, 
The  cotter  smiled  in  sadness  when  he  smiled, 

Men  knew  that  they  had  lost  a  kindly  friend, 

Men  turned  in  sadness  o'er  his  grave  to  bend. 

XXXII. 

There  was  a  funeral  train  from  Abbotsford, 

Borne  slowly  with  dark  hearse  and  waving  plume, 

There  was  its  future  and  its  martial  lord 
Bent  to  his  saddle  bow  with  filial  gloom, 

There  was  a  wail,  anon  and  dying,  heard 
As  if  that  land  were  one  vast  curtained  room, 

And  the  dead  sleeper  had  been  friend  and  brother 

Whose  likeness  should  not  spring  up  in  another. 

XXXIII. 
Draw,  draw  the  curtain ;  as  he  died  few  die, 

So  much  at  ease  with  conscience  and  the  world, 
Giving  to  death  a  kindly  beaming  eye, 

A  lip  that  with  disdain  scarce  ever  curled, 
A  hand  that  4o  the  power  throned  on  high 

One  token  of  defiance  never  hurled ; 
This  for  a  man  of  strong  imagination 
Speaks  more  than  twenty  pages  of  oration. 

XXXIV.  41 

Such  death  was  not  for  Byron,  he,  alas  ! 

It  was  not  all  his  fault,  had  weaned  away 
So  much  of  love  as  pleased  him  to  possess, 

From  the  cold  bosoms  where  perchance  it  lay; 


And  there  was  little  left  him  but  to  pass 

To  rest  amid  men  of  congenial  clay  ; 
They  stood  around  him,  men  in  form  and  face 
Ideal  heroes  of  heroic  Greece. 

XXXV. 

Appearances,  they  say,  are  oft  deceitful ; 

It  needs  not  twenty  years  to  prove  it  true, 
There's  little  doubt  Greece's  old  throes  were  fateful, 

Leaving  her  men,  how  changed,  from  what  they 

grew, 
When  aught  but  battle-strife  was  dull  and  hateful 

To  stern  Athenian  and  bold  Spartan  crew; 
(That  "  crew"  's  a  word  the  critics  may  object  to, 
And  yet  'tis  fine  to  tack  a  lawless  sect  to.) 

XXXVI. 

I  The  Grecians  of  to-day  would  hardly  stand 

To  be  made  mince-meat  of  at  narrow  gorges, 
They've  found  that  fighting  singly,  hand  to  hand, 
Against  stout  war-ships  with  old  leaky  barges, 
Or  bearing  up,  with  fifty  in  a  band, 

Against  ten  thousand  horsemen's  furious  char- 
Is  very  pleasant  to  the  few  that's  left,  [ges — 
But  to  the  rest  a  rather  costly  gift. 

XXXVII. 

They're  not  so  rashly  brave  as  they  have  been, 
Some  men  would  call  them  cowards  and  poltroons, 

Because  the  rule  of  the  Bavarian, 

With  fifty  swords  and  twenty  rusty  guns, 

Is  held  sufficient  for  a  Grecian  reign, 

And  owned  dominion  by  the  Spartan's  sons; 

Perhaps  they've  learned  a  lesson  hard  forgetting 

That  setting  up  is  harder  than  upsetting. 

XXXVIII. 

But  Arnaut,  Suliote,  and  Albanian, 

Bore  yet  in  Byron's  time  the  glorious  figure 

They  bore  in  olden  time,  the  classic  mien, 
That  told  of  deathless  fire  and  deathless  vigor, 

The  men  for  sword,  and  spear-haft,  and  carbine : 
E'en  now,  examined  without  too  much  rigor, 

The  tourists  say  (I  am  not  one  of  them) 

They  look  like  scions  from  a  noble  stem. 

XXXIX. 

Night,  night  on  Missolonghi — Greece's  friend, 
The  idol  of  her  people,  was  departing, 

And  the  dark  Suliotes,  his  own  life-band, 

Gathered  around  his  chamber-doors,  half  starting, 

In  fear  of  the  chill  tidings  that  should  send 
Away  the  friends  that  life  knew  no  deserting, 

The  tidings  that  the  pulse  so  faint  and  low 

Had  ceased  for  ever  its  accustomed  flow. 

XL. 

And  there  were  dusky  forms  bowed,  as  in  prayer, 
Where  the  red  torch-light  flickered  to  and  fro 

Of  men  who  knew  what  supplications  were 
Only  in  hours  of  anguish  or  of  wo. 

The  cross  waved  wildly  in  the  passing  air 
The  beads  told  so  distinctly,  faint,  and  low, 

In  prayers  for  one  in  the  death-shadow  lying, 

And  for  that  Greece  whose  firmest  friend  was  dying. 

XLI. 
But  Byron  died  in  Greece,  and  time  that  bore 

His  coffined  ashes  to  his  native  land, 
Stirred  up  the  spirit  of  old  Greece  once  more 

With  men  of  firmer  heart  and  stronger  hand ; 
A  new  shout  run?  the  Grecian  ruins  o'er, 

A  new  foot  trode  on  Missolonghi's  sand, 
And  of  the  modern  names  in  Greece's  story, 
Bozzaris  shares  the  highest  meed  of  glory. 


6 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XLII. 

Some  chance  caprice  a  rhymer  may  fall  into 
Makes  out  a  general  order  of  replevin, 

Arraigns  some  gentlemen  it  were  a  sin  to, 
To  answer  for  the  trouble  they  have  given, 

And  though,  to  tell  the  truth,  he  does  not  mean  to, 
He  saves  his  hero  from  the  rest's  oblivion  ; 

So  Halleck's  muse  will  keep  Bozzaris'  fame, 

When  of  his  comrades  none  record  a  name. 

XLIII. 
Bozzaris  died  as  man  would  wish  to  die, 

And  Halleck  sung  him,  as  man  seldom  sings ; 
Sung  him  as  Byron,  when  his  pulse  was  high, 

And  his  free  spirit  had  its  noblest  wings — 
Would  have  been  proud  to  sing,  with  battle  cry, 

Banner,  and  trumpet,  and  all  glorious  things 
That  make  the  glitter  and  the  show  of  war, 
Hiding  beneath,  the  rapine  and  the  scar. 

XLIV. 

There  is  a  sound  upon  the  Grecian  shores 

All  day,  of  gratitude  to  Byron's  name, 
And  when  the  silver  light  of  evening  pours 

Upon  the  marks  of  Greece's  pride  and  shame, 
A  calm  sweet  watch  seems  bending  o'er  the  hours, 
Holding  a  torch  from  the  eternal  flame,     [bered, 
White-robed  and  pale,  where  the  old  heroes  slum- 
Singing  a  song  that  prays  to  be  remembered. 

1. 

The  stranger's  step  is  hushed  and  still, 
The  stranger's  hall  is  cold  and  lone, 

And  shadows,  by  the  northern  hill, 
Are  laid  upon  his  burial  stone  ; 

The  stranger's  memory  is  left, 

To  mind  us  of  the  parted  gift. 

2. 

The  stranger's  heart,  the  stranger's  tongue, 
Were  words  of  kindness  in  our  need, 

His  gold  upon  our  altars  rung, 

Not  valor's  bribe,  but  valor's  meed, 

The  stranger  stood  as  freemen  stood ; 

The  stranger's  veins  ran  noble  blood. 

3. 
They  bore  his  dust  to  other  climes, 

They  laid  him  with  a  colder  race, 
Where  sadly  to  the  distant  times 

A  friend  his  memory  shall  trace ; 
They  might  have  left  him  sleeping  here, 
Where  every  dew-drop  is  a  tear. 

4. 
The  stranger's  step  is  hushed  and  still, 

The  stranger's  hall  is  cold  and  lone, 
And  shadows,  by  the  northern  hill, 

Are  laid  upon  his  burial  stone  : 
Our  spirits  by  his  side  shall  stand, 
And  plead  his  doom  in  spirit-land. 

XLV. 

Newstead  has  many  memories  of  old, 

Memories  of  mitred  bishop,  monk,  and  cowl, 

Of  times  when  priests  were  pious,  archers  bold, 
And  forest  men  loved  the  brown  cup  to  trowl, 

When  holy  mother  church  her  favors  sold,     [jowl, 
And  abbots,  knights,  and  kings,  went  cheek  by 

Numbers  no  doubt  her  charms  against  fatalities, 

In  certain  blind  believing  spiritualities. 

XLVI. 

Religion  is  not  now  the  thing  it  was, 

And  will  not  be  again,  to  all  appearance, 

There  is  less  honor  for  the  churchmen  class, 
And  less  emolument  for  their  adherents. 


There  was  a  time  when  empires,  kingdoms,  laws, 

Were  ruled  right  blindly  by  their  interference, 
The  fault's  grown  now,  she  rules  us  far  too  little, 
We  scarce  remember  we've  accounts  to  settle. 

XLVII. 
Religion  is  a  shield,  and  1  for  one 

Would  have  it  sacred,  never  pierced  or  shattered, 
It  saves  some  gentlemen  from  being  "done," 

And  some  dull  wooden-heads  from  being  battered, 
But,  little  mindful  of  the  scoffings  won 

From  reputations  brilliant,  false,  and  tattered, 
Wild,  wayward,  and  unstable,  I  acknowledge — 
That  inspiration  learns  us  more  than  college. 

XLVIII. 

I  turn  not  from  the  faith  of  old  St.  Peter 
With  all  the  protestantic  indignation, 

In  fact,  I've  grown  tired  of  the  speaker's  metre, 
In  one  long  anti-catholic  oration, 

I  deem  there  may  be  good  and  odious  features 
In  every  institute  of  man's  creation, 

Although  I  never  light  on  Fox's  Martyrs, 

But  I'm  disposed  to  burn  the  papal  quarters. 

XLIX. 

England's  old  abbeys  are  to  me  old  links 
Binding  us  backward  to  the  past  ideal, 

Calm,  still,  assistants  to  the  soul  that  shrinks 
From  an  unceasing  conflict  with  the  real, 

Although  the  closing  up  of  window-chinks, 
Forbidding  fair  young  girls  to  hear  and  see  all 

That  passes  in  the  outer  world,  enforces 

A  rather  harsh  believing  in  their  courses. 

L. 
And  yet  there  is  a  still  solemnity 

In  every  movement  of  the  vestal  nuns 
That  proves  the  soul  of  old  sincerity, 

Through  the  whole  monasteric  ritual  runs, 
Shut  from  the  world,  it  was  not  hard  to  be 

More  holy  than  amid  earth's  passionate  sons; 
Could  the  nun's  purity  blend  with  the  wife, 
There  might  be  less  of  broken  vows  in  life. 

LI. 

Such  are  the  thoughts  the  stranger  would  have  given 
In  Newstead's  halls  a  hundred  years  ago, 

But  mark  !  the  recollections,  time  has  striven 
Round  Newstead's  halls  and  Newstead's  towers 
to  throw, 

Glide  backward,  when  a  nearer  flash  from  heaven 
Lights  up  the  dim  aisles  with  a  deeper  glow; 

The  fame  of  genius  has  a  power  beyond 

The  olden  tales  of  witchcraft  and  of  wand. 

LII. 

Who  stands  in  Newstead  with  a  thought  of  old? 

Who  looks  for  friars  save  her  merry  monks  ? 
Whose  eye  in  fancy  has  a  chief  beheld, 

Save  the  mock  abbot  in  his  gladsome  pranks  ? 
Not  one  :  the  household  places  that  he  filled, 

His  seat  of  habit  on  accustomed  banks, 
The  things  he  shared  at  sport  and  festival, 
These  are  the  traveller's  meed,  and  these  are  all. 

LIII. 
They  look  upon  the  bleached  and  whitened  skull 

That,  days  uncounted,  held  his  revel-wine, 
'  Whose  flow,  unlike  alJ  others,  ne'er  was  dull," 

And  trace,  reflectively,  in  cup  and  line, 
The  riferry  madness  which  ran  fast  and  full, 

Whether  he  bowed  to  votary  or  shrine, 
A  yearning  far  too  bitter  in  its  pride 
To  be  apart  from  all  the  world  beside. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LIV. 

This  natural  tendency  for  climbing  ladders — 
Though  rather  favorable  to  notoriety — 

Requires,  without  you  like  to  nest  with  adders, 
A  deal  of  notice  over  your  sobriety  : 

For  reptiles  all,  from  men  to  double-headers, 
Will  give  no  chance  to  one  too  proud  to  buy  it ;  he 

Who  misses  footstep  in  this  awkward  climbing, 

Had  better  ne'er  begun,  in  war  or  rhyming. 

LV. 

A  fall  (sub  rosa)  is  sometimes  beneficial 

In  giving  one  a  proper  estimate 
Of  what  a  blackguard  set,  miscalled  judicial, 

Give  laws  to  those  who  call  themselves  the  great, 
For  our  good  friends  are  always  sure  to  fish  all 

Our  little  foibles  from  their  quiet  state, 
So  that  if  harm  is  really  anywhere, 
The  world  will  be  right  sure  to  know  its  share. 

LVI. 

That's  proper — if  some  men  were  left  alone, 
They'd  go  through  life  without  enough  of  trouble ; 

JTis  very  well  a  friend  or  two  to  own, 

Who  find  the  soap  and  then  blow  up  the  bubble  ; 

And  if  the  size  should  not  suit  every  one, 
Pile  on  conclusions,  and  report  it  double ; 

There's  the  prime  cause  of  all  our  best  inventions, 

Remembering  pavements  made  of  good  intentions. 

LVII. 
Once  more  at  Newstead  :  I  have  wandered  here, 

To  pay  the  personal  tribute  I  have  penned, 
Beside  the  sculptured  covering  of  that  bier, 

Where,  Byron  says,  he  laid  his  only  friend ; 
His  mute  companion  might  have  claimed  a  tear, 

But  'twas  unkindly  mockery  to  blend 
All  living  men  together,  and  declare 
That  falsehood  reigned  and  triumphed  everywhere  ! 

LVIII. 
I  have  been  bruised  and  broken,  trampled  on 

By  those  who  should  have  been  my  heart-rela-  ; 
The  impotence  of  friendship  I  have  known  [tions,  I 

When  it  is  called  to  war  against  the  passions  ; 
Yet  for  the  love  I  bear  my  human  kin, 

I  would  not  breathe  of  such  humiliations, 
I  would  not  say  that  all  are  false  and  heartless 
Because  one  half  the  race  are  proved  desertless. 

LIX. 

Bat  he  sleeps  not  amid  the  dim  old  vaults 
And  mouldering  coffins  of  his  ancient  line ; 

The  pilgrim  to  his  last  reposing  halts 

Beneath  an  humbler  roof,  at  humbler  shrine  ; 

No  fulsome  blazon  serves  to  hide  his  faults, 
Nor  new-found  virtues  to  his  name  consign : 

He  keeps  a  rest  befitting  his  last  prayer, 

Far,  far  from  pomp,  and  its  attendant  care. 


There  is  a  quiet  grave  in  Hucknall  church, 
Where  the  worn  traveller  may  stand  above 

The  dust  that  left  him  at  the  eternal  porch — 
The  dust  that  lingers  of  his  earthly  love, 

That  glides  not  backward  from  the  pilgrim's  search, 
Nor  starts  to  view  where  idle  footsteps  rove 

The  very  stone  above  his  memory  laid — 

The  tribute  a  true-hearted  sister  paid. 

LXI. 

Sweet,  sweet  Augusta  !  was  it  not  unjust 
To  bow  despairing  while  Augusta  lived  ? 

Was  it  so  hard  to  crumble  into  dust 
While  such  a  being  by  his  death-couch  grieved  ? 


The  husband  and  the  father  dared  not  trust, 

And  evil  bodings  are  not  oft  deceived  : 
The  beings  who  had  shared  his  priceless  fame, 
Refused  a  tombstone  to  the  poet's  name ! 

LXII. 
There  were  two  grand  mistakes  that  Byron  made  : 

Some  hours  when  he  was  rather  conscience-smit- 
Some  good  verse  wasted  when  he  drove  his  trade  [ten, 

At  making  rhymes  for  women  serpent-bitten  : 
I  mean  when  "  Fare  thee  well"  his  heart  betrayed, 

And  "  Ada  of  my  house  and  heart"  were  written ; 
Neither  the  mother  nor  the  daughter  paid  him 
For  these  small  slips  of  overwork  they  made  him. 

LXIII. 

Affection  finds  mistakes — 'tis  nothing  strange — 
The  heart  that  in  itself  is  full  and  flowing 

Has  no  conceit  of  coldness  in  its  range, 

And,  while  its  own  alfections  still  are  growing, 

Argues  no  possibility  of  change, 

And  no  refusal  of  the  heart's  bestowing ; 

That  which  is  all  love's  life,  and  light,  and  fulness, 

Has  no  conception  of  cold-hearted  dulness. 

LXIV. 

Perchance  the  richest  hearts  are  always  blind, 
For  human  wisdom  mates  not  with  first  love ; 

I  care  not  for  the  works  of  human  kind  ; 

The  serpent  scarce  companions  with  the  dove; 

Perchance  the  reason  we  may  live  to  find 
In  the  first  problem  that  our  actions  prove; 

The  eye  that  gazes  on  things  bright  and  holy, 

O'erlooks  and  scorns  the  commonplace  and  lowly  ! 

LXV. 

So  we  talk  poetry  to  younger  misses, 

Spend  months  to  prove  that  love  is  so  delightful, 
Dwell  on  soft  pressures  and  ecstatic  kisses, 

Fancy  we  have  a  hold  both  firm  and  rightful, 
While  some  pert  jackanapes  more  aptly  presses 

His  suit,  with  empty  head  and  pocket  tightful : 
'Tis  ten  to  one  that  well-filled  fobs  and  purses, 
Before  we  know  it,  beat  our  lays  and  verses  ! 

LXVI. 

Repentance  may  come  afterward — perhaps 
The  victim  yet  may  find  what  love  is  worth, 

Too  late  to  call  back  Time  from  his  elapse, 
Too  late  to  win  the  siren  back  to  earth : 

Pardon  the  exultation  that  escapes 

The  closed  lips  of  the  sufferer  in  his  dearth — 

It  is  a  pleasure  he  can  not  repress, 

To  find  a  sharer  in  his  wretchedness  ! 

LXVII. 
In  the  one  error  that  wrung  Byron's  soul 

So  near  to  madness — love  for  Mary  Anne — 
Could  he  have  traced  the  future,  to  unroll 

The  one  first  torture  maddened  into  many — 
Could  he  have  seen  her  in  her  husband's  hall, 

Flung  by  to  make  room  for  his  foxhounds — then 
Might  have  found  pleasure  in  the  recollection  [he 
Of  his  and  the  fox-hunting  squire's  affection. 

LXVIII. 

Wife,  daughter,  love,  are  with  forgotten  things 
To  him  who  dwells  within  the  grave's  obscurity } 

This  consciousness,  that  to  the  worn  heart-strings 
The  narrow  house  awhile  shall  give  security— 

'Tis  fearful  straining  of  the  spirit-wings 
To  look  into  the  fathomless  futurity ; 

And  if  I  do  it,  it  must  be  in  reference 

To  this  our  poem,  and  a  moral  difference. 


8 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LXIX. 

'Tis  sure  destruction,  reverently  spoken, 
To  differ  from  the  path  that  genius  walks ; 

The  moral  obligations  he  has  broken 

Must  be  so  fractured — or  the  follower  balks  ; 

The  very  oaths  must  follow  (mine  by  token) 
That  the  said  genius  uses  when  he  talks — 

Never  forgetting  to  turn  down  the  collars, 

And  scoif  at  holy  things  and  holy  scholars. 

LXX. 

Any  obscurity  in  thought  or  language, 

Any  affecting  of  most  brutal  English, 
Any  such  war  as  the  Carlylist  gang  wage — 


And  if  the  follower  don't  beat  the  leader, 
•'Twont  be  for  want  of  humbugging  the  reader ! 

LXXI. 

We're  all  humbugged  a  little,  by-the-way, 
In  certain  honors  paid  to  certain  lions ; 

Although,  in  truth,  I've  little  there  to  say : 
For  if  the  truth  must  be  told,  I  did  try  once 

To  help  strew  flowers  in  Charles  Dickens'  way — 
He  who  I  hoped  would  pass  our  follies  by  once, 

And  not  scoff  at  our  horrid  pertinacity, 

As  some  had  done,  with  suitable  mendacity. 

LXXII. 

Some  spirits  nondescript,  how  mixed  and  mottled  ! 

Must  have  presided  at  young  Boz's  natal, 
And  in  his  exquisite  exterior  bottled 

The  ludicrous,  the  gay,  the  sad,  the  fatal, 
Mixed  up  of  virtue  freed  and  murderers  throttled, 

Giving  assurance  of  the  clear  bright  metal 
That  feels  above  the  tinsel  poet's  course, 
And  writes  his  glorious  thoughts,  without  his  verse. 

LXXIII. 

And  yet  the  wisest  men  have  some  weak  spots, 
And  inconsistencies  are  theirs  as  well ; 

I  know  that  Sense  and  Folly  once  drew  lots 
Which  should  in  Boz's  book  the  story  tell  i 

Americans  grew  black  as  Hottentots, 
Esquimaux  manners  under  notice  fell, 

And  that  which  should  have  been  there,  mind  on 

Was  quite  forgotten,  or  all  left  behind.          [mind, 

LXXIV. 

All  this  to  prove  there's  no  necessity 

To  take  an  author's  follies  for  his  beauties, 

That  wit  may  be  at  home,  and  pleasure  free, 
Without  a  single  blow  at  moral  duties  ; 

An  illustration  is  the  way  to  me 

To  show  how  sad  and  sorrowfully  true  'tis — 

The  noblest  genius  stoops  to  desecrate 

The  noblest  calling  of  man's  high  estate. 

LXXV. 

'Tis  desecration  on  the  page  to  lay 

What  woman's  virtue  must  turn  pale  to  read ; 
And  for  the  poet's  calling,  none  may  say 

He  who  is  one,  in  power,  truth,  and  deed, 
Bows  down  to  any  form  of  moulded  clay 

In  nobly  battling  for  the  glorious  meed 
Of  manhood's  benefactor,  woman's  friend — 
An  ordeal  where  our  wishes  all  should  end. 

LXXVI. 

ThattByron  sought  the  injury  of  man, 
Or  womankind,  in  any  line  he  penned — 

Further  than  where  his  first  resentments  ran 
Against  a  bitter  foe,  or  faithless  friend — 


I  Is  arrant  falsehood  ;  though  the  critic  clan 

Have  dared  their  volley  on  his  head  to  bend, 
I  I  dare  stand  up  and  say,  it  was  not  his 
I  To  make  life,  willingly,  worse  than  it  is ! 

Lxxvir. 

j  The  spirit  that  was  full  of  human  love 
Imparted  freshness  to  the  glowing  scene, 

Bade  the  voluptuary  more  softly  move, 
Placed  for  illicit  love  a  finer  screen, 

Brought  feelings  that  have  never  dwelt  above, 
And  called  them  innocent  and  half  divine : 

It  was  the  spirit  of  his  own  indulgence, 

And  not  a  meteor-blaze,  a  false  effulgence, 

LXXVIII. 

I  The  mind  that  seeks  passing  amusement  only 

In  the  young  Don,  will  not  grow  better  by  him; 
I  The  bitter  moralist  has  glossed  too  finely 

The  soft  temptations  and  the  snares  that  try  him ; 
I  But  even  now,  unfinished,  young,  and  lonely, 
Let  but  the  calmness  of  reflection  eye  him  : 
The  time  so  spent  will  hardly  be  repented, 
And  e'en  the  moralist  will  be  contented. 

LXXIX. 

Youth  with  Don  Juan  has  not  passed  as  yet : 

His  veins  beat  high  with  youth's  ecstatic  musing ; 
When  has  the  libertine  a  pleasure  met 

That  did  not  perish  sadly  in  the  using  ? 
!  Upon  what  page  is  not  the  moral  set 

That  youth  and  love  were  not  made  for  abusing  ? 
i  The  scoffing  vein  covers  but  can  not  hide 
j  The  hollowness  of  his  voluptuous  pride. 

LXXX. 

•  How  much  the  balance  hangs,  for  good  or  evil, 

Of  Juan's  readers,  is  a  nice  position  ; 
;  But  all  agree,  that,  leaving  Byron's  revel. 

Few  men  have  equalled  him  in  composition  ; 
At  either  side,  I'm  not  disposed  to  cavil, 

But  left  in  rather  fatherless  condition — 
With  his  loose  moral  thoughts  little  diminished — 
Pardon,  if  I  attend  him,  till  he's  finished. 

LXXXI. 

I've  put  him  off  so  long,  I'm  half  afraid 
The  reader  will  despair  of  his  arrival ; 
j  But  if  morality  is  well  repaid, 

This  short  procrastination  is  a  trifle  ; 
Although  the  dust  of  twenty  years  is  laid 

Upon  him,  I  despair  not  of  revival : 
When  I  fix  this  prospectus  as  I  want  to, 
I'll  take  the  Don  up  in  another  canto. 

LXXXII. 

j  There's  nothing  very  new  in  the  remark 

That  death  comes  on  at  unexpected  times — 
j  That  he  shuts  up  the  everlasting  ark 

Just  as  the  seeker  to  the  window  climbs — 
Cuts  off  the  venial  murderer  in  the  dark, 

Without  an  expiation  for  his  crimes, 
And  drops  the  rhymer,  with  exhausted  breath, 
Almost  in  grasping  distance  of  his  wreath. 

LXXXIII. 

But  the  remembrance  of  the  brittle  thread, 
Our  only  guarantee  for  one  hour's  life, 

Is  small  excuse  for  stiffening  the  tread, 
Or  stirring  men  to  enmity  or  strife ; 

So  much  we  owe,  even  when  with  the  dead, 
To  those  who  tread  behind  us,  and  so  rife 

With  all  importance,  that  our  deeds  may  claim 
i  A  true  defender  for  their  worth  and  fame. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LXXXIV. 

Or  e'en  a  finisher.     How  many  a  scheme 

Of  human  wisdom  totters  into  dust, 
When  the  first  mover's  eye  grows  pale  and  dim, 

And  age,  or  death,  lay  the  mind  down  to  rust, 
When  the  great  army,  moving  in  the  game, 

Behold  no  more  the  hand  they  learned  to  trust, 
As  many  a  one  in  warlike  operations, 
And  Davenport  in  mulberry  speculations. 

LXXXV. 

Only  five  stanzas  more — I  'd  rather  thought 
To  make  this  ninety  stanzas  fill  a  canto : 

Whether  I'll  be  obliged  to  spin  it  out, 

Or  find  the  space  I've  given  rather  scant  too — 

I  hardly  know  yet ;  but  one  thing  is  flat — 
No  longer  and  no  shorter  than  I  plan  to ; 

So  all  the  stars  poetical  protect  us  ! 

I  must  be  driving  on  with  my  prospectus. 

LXXXVI. 

The  wreath  fell  not  from  Byron's  dying  grasp, 
His  name  was  written  down  with  time's  immortals, 

His  hand  need  only  stretch  itself  to  grasp 
The  scroll  that  gave  him  place  in  fame's  white 

And  envy's  scorpion,  or  detraction's  asp,     [portals, 
Could  only  wound  him  as  the  serpent  hurtles, 

Fatal,  because  beneath,  and  only  spared 

From  the  base  crawling  of  the  race  it  shared ! 

LXXXVII. 

But  thus  far  know  I — that  I  would  not  fall 

Just  in  the  middle  of  a  high  career, 
Leaving  the  niche  half  built  in  memory's  wall, 

Half  undiscovered,  when  the  rest  was  clear. 
I  would  not  die,  without  a  friend  to  call 

All  I  had  scattered,  thoughtless,  there  and  here, 
To  bind  my  broken  arrows  in  my  quiver, 
And  hold  them  as  memorials  of  the  giver. 

LXXXVIH. 

All  that  I  know  of  Byron,  I  have  drawn 
From  those  best  indices,  to  read  the  soul. 

Familiar  letters,  with  no  veil  put  on 

Of  worldly  seeming,  politic  control :        < 

Thrown  out,  a  fountain's  sparkle,  like  it,  gone, 
In  the  allusions  thai  make  bright  the  whole — 

But  leaving  yet  some  varying  shades  and  tints 

That  serve  his  self-executor  for  hints. 

LXXXIX. 

One  promise,  one  apology,  and  then 

I'll  rest — my  morals  are  beyond  a  doubt, 

If  I  find  anything  that's  quite  too  plain, 
Like  a  good  moralist,  I'll  leave  it  out ; 

I'll  keep  the  Don  in  as  correct  a  vein 
As  may  be  done,  without  a  rein  too  taut ; 

And  at  the  end,  if  I  don't  have  things  straight, 

Poetic  justice  wo'n't  make  out  a  fate. 

XC. 

The  one  apology— I  can  not  bring 
The  eastern  gardens,  and  the  eastern  hourii, 

I  can  not  sing,  as  Byron  used  to  sing, 

Old  Greece's  beauty,  Greece's  faded  glory ; 

Can  not  paint  Europe's  fashionable  ring, 
As  if  it  came  from  a  bystander's  story  ; 

The  rest  depends  more  on  the  gazer's  eyes 

Than  e'en  the  pen  that  sparkles  as  it  flies. 


CANTO  II. 
I. 

"  THE  deuce  is  in  the  moon  for  mischief!"  so 
Says  Byron  in  young  Juan's  first  love-scrape ; 

Meaning  to  have  it  understood,  you  know, 
That  love  by  moonlight 's  generally  cheap, 

And  that  she  makes  the  softer  feelings  grow 
Into  a  more  voluptuary  shape ; 

A  fair  insinuation  that  it  is  chief 

Of  the  moon's  business  to  make  earthly  mischief. 

II. 

That 's  false  !  How  do  they  say  it  ?  false  and  traitor- 
And  all  that  sort  of  thing — in  tragedies,      [ous  ' 

And  other  works  that  foreign  writers  cater  us, 
Who  study  less  to  learn  us  than  to  please — 

And  don't  stop  in  their  moral  rhymes  to  spatter  us, 
As  we  stop  in  such  crazy  rhymes  as  these, 

Where  the  first  motto  is, '  splash  all  your  neighbors/ 

And  this  soon  gets  to  be  like  all  love's  labors — 

HI. 

Confounded  easy. — 'Tis  not  very  hard  [with, 

To  find  fault  with  the  world,  or  be  found  fault 

Our  fun's  the  salt  (see  butter,  cheese,  and  lard), 
The  world's  the  kind  of  thing  they  take  the  salt 

Or  to  make  finish  of  this  quibbling-card,        [with, 
The  malt,  and  liquor  that  they  take  the  malt  with, 

They — I  have  given  up  the  drinking  revel, 

Followed  Tom  ^Marshall,  and  eschewed  the  devil. 

IV. 

But  this  a  little  secret — 'twould  not  do 

To  rear  this  banner  of  the  stanch  teetotals, 

Just  when  I  might  describe,  and  freely  too, 
Lord  Henry's  guests,  among  their  champagne- 
bottles, 

I  might,  perhaps  I  will — the  red  wine  flew, 
So  did  the  waiters,  and  so  did  the  stopples, 

The  last  don't  follow  the  consecutive, 

But  sentiments,  not  rhymes  are  what  we  give. 

V. 

Rhymes  are  not  always  handy ;  you  can't  find  them 
Just  when  you  happen  to  desire  them  most, 

And  in  that  case,  'tis  better  not  to  mind  them, 
For  generally  the  small  price  they  cost — 

Is  that  when  rhymes  are  nicely  strung  behind  them, 
The  meaning,  no  great  consequence,  is  lost, 

That  makes  this  measure  something  of  a  favorite, 

A  sort  of  fame  from  which  the  Lord  deliver  it 

VI. 

Twopenny  scribblers,  what  a  world  of  loss 

(Negative  loss,  not  losing  what  you  never  had) 

You  would  have  suffered,  playing  pitch  and  toss 
At  that  small  stock  of  common  sense  you  ever  had, 

Making  your  brains  the  mark,  the  space  across 
The  reputation  you,  as  very  clever,  had 

(Not  a  large  mark,  and  rather  a  small  distance, 

You  might  have  hit  by  some  uncommon  mischance), 

VII. 

If  Pulci,  Whistlecraft,  and  Noel  Byron, 
Had  not  made  up  a  kind  of  rhyming  jangle 

Serving  the  pens,  too  soft  for  steel  or  iron, 
Pewter,  I  mean,  the  English  tongue  to  mangle, 

Serving  to  heap  cat  smiles,  or  brimstone  fire  on> 
When  ribald  rhymers  first  begin  to  wrangle, 

To  make  old  women  fat,  or  young  men  haggard, 

Serving,  in  short,  to  idolize  or  blackguard — 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


VIII. 
Two  things,  which,  in  republics,  are  of  use 

In  doing  many  things  which  must  be  done; 
Torrents  of  admiration  or  abuse 

Would  cause  a  rupture  if  forbid  to  run, 
And  these  the  common  vehicles  men  choose 

To  keep  life  stirring  when  'tis  well  begun; 
It  matters  little  who  has  praise  or  blame — 
Just  send  them  out,  the  elfect  is  all  the  same. 

IX. 

Blame,  may  be,  is  the  cheapest,  certainly 
It's  something  more  conveniently  come  by 

When  our  best  schemes  comes  out  "  nolle  prosequi" 
Or  (worse  than  all),  our  pride  is  knocked  in  "pi ;" 

That  last  is  printer's  phrase,  none,  that  I  see 
Have  any  better  privilege  than  I, 

For  Pulci's  stanzas,  generally  speaking, 

Keep  the  first  publisher,  if  paid,  from  breaking. 

X. 

Hold  off!  I  did  not  mean  to  introduce 
That  last  word  here,  I'll  use  it  some  months  hence, 

When  I  am  not  so  poor  I  need  refuse 

To  lend  a  brother  rhymer  eighteen  pence, 

I  may  hope  vainly,  but  my  fancy's  loose 
And  full  of  hopes,  to  fill  the  future  tense ; 

Apathy  makes  a  capital  endurer, 

And,  if  no  richer,  I  can  not  get  poorer. 

XI. 

But  to  return  :  this  stanza's  very  like 

Life  as  it  is,  perhaps  life  as  it  should  be — 

Not  smiles  and  tears,  but  jest  and  earnest,  quick 
As  a  true  follower  of  life's  changes  would  be, 

Containing,  probably,  the  greatest  trick 
That  ever  would  be,  or  that  ever  could  be — 

Given  to  force  success ;  not  truth,  stability, 

Not  earnest,  even,  but  better — versatility. 

XII. 

The  world's  great  touchstone  of  success,  the  means 
By  which  men  grow,  being  good  wits  and  dancers, 

To  outstrip  those,  with  twenty  times  the  brains, 
Who  do  not  happen  to  have  ready  answers, 

Proves  that  the  ready  eye,  and  hand  it  trains, 
Are  all  things  to  the  world's  actors  and  fencers, 

And  if  you  doubt  it,  see  who  leads  the  fashion — 

One  whose  first  motto  of  success  is,  "  Dash  on  !" 

XIII. 

Who  talks  of  things  just  in  their  proper  places, 
Fondles  the  mother's  pet,  kisses  the  baby, 

Shows  oldest  daughters  some  new-fangled  graces, 
And  listens  to  the  father's  last  new  hobby, 

Imitates  an  old  aunt,  whose  weazen  face  is 
Demure  and  matronly,  as  aunt's  face  may  be; 

You  know  the  consequences,  he's  successful 

In  several  things  that  make  existence  blissful. 

XIV. 


Raleigh's  an  instance  very  much  in  point : 

The  courtier  is  apparent  in  his  history, 
Bows  that  were,  plainly,  never  out  of  joint,  [ter,  he 
And  cloaks  for  foot-cloths  to  Queen  Mary's  sis- 
Formed  into  fortune,  wealth,  and  fame — aroint ! 

Witchcraft  and  that  intolerable  mystery  ! 
Tho  secret  of  success  is  in  the:  will 
And  in  the  quick  perception  of  its  skill. 

XV. 

But  to  the  moon  : — Don't  credit  that  assertion 
That  the  moon's  mischievous,  believe  it  is 

At  the  best  reckoning  a  foul  aspersion, 
Approaching  very  nearly  to  a  quiz, 


The  man  who  would  say  so,  would  pull  the  curtain 

From  half  the  ancients'  best  mythologies, 
Tear  down  Jove,  Juno,  Vulcan,  Venus,  Dian, 
And  eat  the  supper  of  the  gods  with  Cayenne ! 

XVI. 

Dian,  Diana,  chaste,  pure,  beautiful, 

Cold,  frosty,  everything  that's  unapproachable, 

Fair,  pale,  snow-circled  (catalogues  are  dull 
And  in  the  present  case  the  list's  untouchable), 

The  templed  one  of  temple-builders  all, 

The  sonnetized  of  sonneteers  unvouchable — 

I'm  sorry  that  the  time  has  ever  been 

When  the  moon's  character  must  bear  a  stain. 

XVII. 

But  so  our  glories  fall— the  sculptured  shaft, 
The  chiselled  pillar,  in  her  marble  dome, 

Are  with  the  things  of  bygone  ages  left; 
The  Ephesian  oracle  looks  on  her  home 

Of  the  past  days,  when  the  blue  surges  lift 

The  crescent  from  its  pillow  in  their  foam, 
I  But  looks,  alas  !  to  see  the  spirit  stride 

Over  the  crumbling  ruins  in  his  pride. 

XVIII. 

Time  was,  and  is  not — of  Diana's  fame 
Ephesus  is  a  heap  of  crumbling  stones 

Alone  remaining  where  the  conquerors  came. 
All  nations,  haply,  have  their  sinking  moans, 

And  all  shall  mourn  when  the  decaying  flame 
Flickers  o'er  hero's  dust  and  hero's  bones — 

Whether  the  hero  vanished  in  his  fall, 

Or  lingers  in  the  marble  pedestal. 

XIX. 

So  far  as  love  is  purely  sentimental, 
The  moon  is  quite  agreeable,  no  more 

The  bosom  grows  far  cheaper  in  its  rental 
Beneath  her  nameless  and  unspoken  lore ; 

[  would  not  speak  so  freely,  but  I  went  all 
One  fading  summer,  with  my  mind  set  o'er 

Bright  gems  and  starlight,  and  the  full  moon  set 

[  know  not  how  much  in  the  coronet. 

XX. 

There  is  a  time  when  words  are  sacrilege, 

When  the  slight  touch   runs  quivering  through 
the  frame, 

When  the  full  heart  grows  prophet,  saint,  and  sage, 
And  lives  whole  centuries  in  a  moment's  flame, 

When  the  last  sentence  of  the  mystic  page 
Rolls  back  upon  the  spirit  whence  it  came, 

And  we  are  love — holy  and  saddened  love — 

For  once  in  life,  the  fearful  trembling  dove ! 

XXI. 
There  is  a  time,  when,  in  the  silent  one 

With  the  full  bosom  and  the  trembling  eye, 
Half  from  remembrance  and  the  future,  won, 

The  soft  warm  teardrop  trembling  to  the  sky, 
We  bow  to  the  one  spirit  who  alone 

Would  be  our  recompense  to  clasp  and  die — 
Bow,  with  a  voiceless  truth,  a  silent  yearning, 
That  in  all  life  shall  never  know  returning. 


XXII. 

Moonlight  and  melody — there  was  a  spell 
One  summer  eve  that  I  have  sung  of  old, 

There  was  a  lay  the  wind  bore  up  the  dell, 
Creeping  into  the  heart  with  silent  hold, 

A  joyous  cadence,  and  a  weeping  trill, 

Bringing  up  feelings,  warm  by  turns,  and  cold, 

Touched  by  a  friendly  hand  that  even  now 

In  one  short  lay  can  overcast  my  brow. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XXIII. 

And  now  they  are  united — I  look  up 

To  the  calm  moon,  and  almost  think  I  hear 

That  old  familiar  lay  of  changing  hope 
Borne  o'er  the  sleeping  valley  to  my  ear, 

Bringing  up  one  who  under  this  broud  cope 
Shall  ne'er  again  be  my  companion  here, 

Whose  phantasy  recalls  forgotten  days — 

Forgotten  all,  save  in  their  living  lays  : — 

1. 

To  thee  by  moonlight  I  have  given 

My  dreams  of  earth,  my  hopes  of  heaven, 

Lady — lady  ! 

Drink  of  this  cup,  no  slavish  wine  : 
The  goblet  holds  a  heart  of  mine, 

Lady  sweet ! 

2. 

To  thee  by  moonlight,  o'er  the  dell 
Beat  hearts  that  love  thee — oh  !  how  well — 

Lady — lady ! 

But  though  the  measure  be  so  dear, 
I  would  that  thou  couldst  linger  here, 

Lady  sweet ! 

3. 

To  thee  by  moonlight — one  to  thee, 
Another  to  the  wild  and  free, 

Lady — lady  ! 

Tears  tremble  on  the  verge  of  bliss, 
Time  ne'er  shall  be  so  sweet  as  this, 

Lady  sweet ! 

4. 

Shall  other  hands  be  fondly  prest  ? 
Another  heart  beat  near  thy  breast  ? 

Lady — lady  ! 

Speak,  but  in  silence  :  tell  me  now, 
With  woman's  kiss  upon  my  brow, 

Lady  sweet ! 

XXIV. 

There  is  a  time  that  springs,  as  flowers  spring, 
Forth  from  a  bud  that  has  no  second  blowing ; 

There  is  a  time  that  mocks  the  eagle's  wing, 
And  will  not  calmly  bend  to  man's  bestowing ; 

There  is  a  time  when  recollections  cling 
Yet  sadder,  in  the  last  hour  they  are  going ; 

There  is  a  time  when  the  first  feelings  centre, 

Whose  like  again  the  bosom  ne'er  will  enter  ! 

XXV. 
I'm  wiser  now — if  knowing  more  is  wiser — 

Something  I  find  not  difficult  to  doubt ; 
We  ne'er  know  Wisdom  well,  till  we  despise  her, 

She  throws  so  many  of  our  feelings  out — 
For  young  Affection  is  an  early-riser  : 

Her  sister  cold  waits  till  the  sun's  about ; 
Sp  I  love  moonlight  still,  and  I'll  defend  it, 
Until  the  moon's  last  setting,  or  mine,  end  it! 

XXVI. 

The  deuce  is  in  dark  galleries  ! — If  that 

Had  been  the  assertion  Byron  made,  no  question 

I  should  have  marked  it  down  as  very  "  pat," 
And  only  once  demanding  my  digestion  ; 

But  when  the  contradiction  is  so  flat, 

It  must  be  owing  to  our  joint  digression : 

Neither  one  caring  for  his  speech  a  moment, 

Whether  he  knocks  it  down  in  his  next  comment. 

XXVII. 
'Tis  the  first  time  I've  neared  the  real  subject 

In  that  one  thought,  though  it  is  true  I  promised 
To  make  a  dash  at  Juan  and  his  object,  [pumiced, 

When  the  last   canto  came   out  smoothed  and 


But  I  forgot  it  in  things  bright  and  abject — 

Some  rather  light  and  very  trifling — some  iced 
After  the  manner  most  approved  and  proper 
Of  hiding  grains  of  gold  in  tons  of  copper. 

XXVIII. 

So  let  me  be  historian  in  brief, 

And  say  to  you  that  your  imaginations 

May  take  it  up  where  Byron  turned  the  leaf 
And  formed  all  sorts  of  pleasant  recreations  : 

Among  which,  quite  conspicuous  and  chief, 
Were  kisses,  and  the  other  small  sensations 

Of  love,  when  lawless  and  unchained,  and  free 

To  be  as  generous  as  it  seeks  to  be. 

XXIX. 

The  index  was  a  true  one  for  the  book  ; 

The  dutchess  of  Fitz  Fulke  was  fair  and  frail, 
Juan,  the  lover,  had  a  saucy  look, 

And  his  words  sparkled  like  rich  wine  and  ale ; 
And  the  impression  that  your  eye  first  took 

Of  his  high  passions  was  not  known  to  fail : 
There  was  no  shrinking,  when  the  moment  came 
(I  grieve  to  say  it),  even  back  from  shame  ! 

XXX. 

There  are  but  few  pure  erids  in  life — but  few 
That  bear  the  sun  of  morning ;  but  the  gloom 

Thrown  in  the  fading  twilight  o'er  the  view 
In  the  dark  corners  of  a  curtained  room 

May  seem  to  hallow  things  most  foul :  I  knew 
A  cankered  rose  that  still  gave  out  perfume, 

And  I  have  known  "  fair  women  and  brave  men" 

Sinning  in  darkness  as  the  two  sinned  then. 

XXXI. 

Night,  with  its  darkness  and  its  silence — night 
In  an  old  abbey,  with  the  ghosts  and  rats — 

Would  put  a  reasonable  man  in  fright, 

And  make  him  pray  for  candles  and  for  cats. 

With  woman,  it  is  tolerable,  quite, 

Arid  whispering  makes  one  forget  the  bats  ; 

And  lips  too  near  for  whispering,  with  some, 

May  be  most  valued  when  they  are  most  dumb. 

XXXII. 

Hours  pass,  nights  fly.  people  go  home  to  bed, 
Dreaming  of  those^  they  parted  from — the  kiss 

Of  human  love,  from  lips  so  warmly  shed, 
Leaving  a  taste  of  long-remembered  bliss; 

And  there  are  some  who  grope  with  stealthy  tread 
To  dreams  less  pure  :  form  your  own  mind  of  this ; 

My  business  is  with  morn  and  morning  light — 

I  seldom  think,  I  only  live,  at  night. 

XXXIII. 

Twas  morn  at  Norman  Abbey — it  had  been 
That  year  the  same  thing  several  times  before, 

And  very  probably  there  has  been  seen 
The  same  phenomenon  as  many  more — 

Of  the  sun  up  ;  making  it  very  vain 
Even  to  woo  sleep  by  a  waking  snore  : 

For  gentle  sleep,  by  day  I  can  not  win  her, 

Except  an  hour  or  two,  just  after  dinner. 

XXXIV. 

A.nd  Juan  woke,  turned  over,  yawn-ed,  looked  out, 

Saw  somethings  dull,  and  some  things  entertain- 
Some  half  a  dozen  grooms,  who  frisked  about,  [ing : 

With  half  a  dozen  horses  held  in  training ; 
Two  noblemen,  with  an  incipient  gout,  [ing; 

Who  thought  fresh  air  good  for  the  first  complain. 
Two  dogs — and  here  he  rolled  back  on  his  pillow, 

d  thought  the  morn  was  very  bright  and  mellow 


12 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XXXV. 

It  was,  in  truth,  .1  bright,  bright,  sunny  morn, 
With  August  dews  just  sparkling  on  the  grass, 

The  silvery  night-mist  on  the  valley  born, 
Passing*  away  as  all  bright  vapors  pass — 

A  fitting  time  for  the  clear  ringing  horn 
To'call  a  gallant  company  to  the  chase ; 

And  worthy  of  the  gallant  stag,  who  held 

The  meed  of  hunting  in  the  days  of  eld. 

XXXVI. 

A  horn  rang :  o'er  that  broad  and  fair  domain 
Bounded  the  echoes,  touching  here  and  there, 

As  if  in  coquetry — o'er  hill  and  plain 
Rang  farther  off  and  died  upon  the  air, 

A  merry  sound  to  the  rich,  titled  train. 

Who  that  day'.s  sport  were  privileged  to  share — 

The  signal  of  the  fox-chase,  and  upsprung 

From  couch  and  pillow  that  divided  throng. 

XXXVII. 

The  hunt  was  up,  not  the  old  stag  affair, 
But  one  of  England's  later-time  fox-chases, 

Where  men  rode  precipices  to  a  hair,  [places, 

And  dashed  worn  steeds  down  very  dangerous 

And  showed,  crossing  a  country  not  too  square, 
Some  speed  might  shame  our  fashionable  races  : 

The  dangerous  part  you'll  have  no  room  to  doubt, 

Before  I've  finished  this  short  canto  out  ! 

XXXVIII. 
And  they  who  backed  a  courser  properly, 

And  did  not  fear  gulleys  and  deeper  ditches, 
Prepared  to  make  it  a  grand  sporting-day, 

And  to  receive  a  few  slight  falls  and  pitches, 
By  taking  coffee,  chocolate,  and  tea,         [breeches 

Quite    early;    some  brushed   up   top-boots   and 
From  a  small  covering  of  superfluous  mud, 
Got  the  last  time  they  showed  their  hunting-blood. 

XXXIX. 

Those  who  did  not  ride,  slept,  or  so  pretended 

By  way  of  being  fashionable,  very, 
Night,  in  their  practice,  by  next  noon  was  ended  ; 

By  twelve  again,  they  were  both  grave  and  merry 
On  some  flirtation  just  begun  or  mended, 

Or  (older  ones)  an  extra  dozen  of  sherry  : 
Both  (love  and  wine)  admitted  elevators 
Of  soberest  men  and  wisest  agitators. 

XL. 

But  the  choice  spirits  met  at  chocolate — 

I  would  say  breakfast,  had  it  been  a  breakfast — 

A  meal  which  only  half  were  visibly  at, 

Of  those  who  had  the  fortitude  to  wake  fast, 

And  whose  digestive  organs  were  in  state, 

What  they  did  take,  in  very  truth  to  take  fast : 

A  kind  of  preparation  for  excursion 

Which  makes  the  whole  proceeding  my  aversion. 

XLI. 
The  ladies  were,  in  truth,  well  represented 

In  the  fox-hunting  clique — some  half  a  dozen 
With  whom  we  may  be  gloriously  contented, 

Formed  of  the  very  ones  we  would  have  chosen 
For  wit  or  beauty,  or,  as  I  have  hinted, 

Well  qualified  a  restiff  steed  to  cozen — 
On  whom  the  riding-caps  and  riding-dresses    [ses  : 
Matched  well  with  gay,  bright  fy.-s  and  flowing  tres- 

XUI. 
The  lady  Adeline,  who  rode,  of  co 

The  dutchess  of  Fitz  Fulke,  who  rode  by  nature  ; 

ra  Raby,  who  caressed  a  horse 
As  if  she  idolized  the  glorious  creature  ; 


Two  countesses  of  Blank,  no  whit  the  worse 

For  the  sarcasm  of  which  each  shared  a  feature; 
Another,  dull,  perhaps,  and  maybe  witty, 
But  on  my  honor,  I  assure  you,  pretty. 


XLIII. 
j  The  nobler  sex  (pardon  me)  had  enlisted 

All  the  most  prominent  figures  in  our  circle  : 

I  The  Don,  in  whom  we  all  are  interested — 
Lord  Fitz  Plantagenet,  who  ne'er  failed  to  work 
Convenient  ways  to  have  his  valor  tested,          [all 

By  treating  Juan  like  a  turbaned  Turk — all 
i  Extremely  proper,  as  he  judged  affairs, 
And  more  so,  had  he  owned  more  eyes  and  ears : 

XLIV. 
I  mean  eyes  capable  of  seeing  through 

Solid  stone  walls,  and  longt  dark  galleries; 
And  ears  that  might  have  heard  the  words  that  flow 
From  deep  and  headstrong  passions  when  they 
For,  let  it  be  remembered,  our  own  two         [rise  , 

Betrayed  no  symptom  by  their  lips  or  eyes 
I  That  morning,  of  the  wonderful  extent 
To  which  warm  intimacies  sometimes  went ! 

XLV. 

'Tis  part  of  the  apprenticeship  of  love — 
Equivocal,  I  mean — how  to  dissemble  : 

To  bid  the  pulses  cease  when  they  would  move, 
To  make  the  lips  be  still  when  they  would  trem- 

To  make  the  eyes  forget  a  natural  rove —        [ble, 
In  short,  to  act  like  Siddons  or  John  Kemble 

The  part  that's  necessary,  and  no  more  : 

The  education's  not  complete  before. 

XLVI. 

The  Don,  Lord  Fitz  Plantagenet,  Lord  Henry, 
Sir  Harry  Silver  Cup,  three  earls,  a  baron, 

And  several  of  the  less  important  gentry, 

That  understood  hard  riding  and  hard  swearing, 

Were  mounted  for  the  field ;  the  lord's  tenantry. 
Used  to  Lord  Henry's  mood,  Lord  Henry's  faring, 

In  numbers  quite  uncounted  and  uncared  for, 

The  hunting  drudgery  were  well  prepared  for. 

XLVIT. 
Loose  rein,  put  spur !  (as  Willis  says)— they  sprung 

Forth  for  a  level  run  upon  the  plain  ; 
But,  not  as  usual,  Juan's  courser  hung 

Even  and  smoothly  at  the  dutchess'  rein ; 
Not  as  his  wont  his  bridle-hand  was  flung, 

The  veriest  sportsman  of  that  sporting  train — 
He  seemed  a  laggard — something  strange  for  him — 
Whose  very  jockey-cap  was  always  trim. 

XLVIII. 

Men  will  ride  so  when  thinking;  sometimes,  only. 

I've  seen  them  dash  the  tired  and  panting  steecT 
Into  a  foam  unfeeling  and  unmanly — 

Thinking,  poor  fools  !  to  flee  the  barbed  reed 
They  bore  within,  in  a  heart  worn  and  lonely, 

Or  seared  and  blackened  by  Crime's  iron  tread  : 
Juan  had  very  littL-  of  this  sorrow, 
And  only  thought  what  lay  beyond  the  morrow. 

XLIX. 
Love's  brightest  fetters  are  not  always  golden, 

Her  cords  not  always  silken — so  they  chafe ; 
Her  votary  on  one  side  is  held  beholden, 

And  on  the  other  side  is  held  unsafe; 
The  consciousness  of  power  will  embolden 

To  some  things  which  will  make  attachment  brief, 
And  Juan  thought  there  might  be  more  of  trouble 
In  getting  single  than  in  getting  double  ! 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


13 


He  feared  the  dutchess — that  is,  he  might  grow 
Tired  before  she  did,  and  a  scene  might  break 

Some  consequences  that  would  give  a  blow 
To  what  he  half  designed  to  undertake, 

And  his  design,  if  I  may  call  it  so, 

Was  only — what  d'ye  think  it  was  ?  to  make 

(Characteristic  of  Don  Juan  maybe), 

A  second  Haidee  of  Aurora  Raby. 

LI. 

But  the  cry  rang  ;  hound,  horse,  and  rider,  bent 
Eye,  nerve,  and  feeling,  to  the  glorious  chase ; 

With  an  impatient  movement,  Juan  lent 
A  sportsman's  ardor  to  the  coming  race, 

And  as  his  trained  steed  with  the  foremost  went, 
They  hardly  marked  that  he  had  changed  his 

It  seemed  so  like  Don  Juan,  to  be  first          [place, 

When  the  cry  opened,  and  the  cover  burst. 

LII. 

The  hedge,  the  ditch,  two  bounds,  and  they  were 
A  five-bar  gate  stood  ready  for  the  third,   [past ; 

Our  lady  train  could  hardly  be  the  last, 
When  "  faster  and  yet  faster"  was  the  word  ; 

The  reader  in  his  mind  can  follow  best, 
And  fancy  nothing  wonderful  occurred, 

Till  Reynard  doubled — on  the  very  track, 

The  chase  and  the  pursuers  bounded  back. 

LIII. 

The  chase  grew  hot,  but  fox  and  hounds  led  off, 
And  the  lithe  riders  fell  back,  one  by  one, 

As  hors*e  by  horse  proved  of  inferior  stuff, 
Till  of  the  twenty  who  had  first  begun, 

But  two  were  rode  well,  or  showed  blood  enough 
To  keep  the  hot  pursuit  still  urging  on, 

With  any  hope  to  see  its  closing  yet, 

Of  course,  Don  Juan  and  Plantagenet. 

LIV. 
I've  dropped  the  Fitz  there  for  the  rhyme  alone, 

And  hope  the  Fitzes  will  of  course  excuse  me, 
Although  it  is  a  habit  with  me  grown, 

Of  using  other's  names  as  others  use  me ; 
That  is,  clip  off  one  half,  so  nicely  done 

I  do  not  mind ;  the  public  won't  abuse  me 
For  that  sin  very  much,  so  let  me  strain 
Your  courtesy  if  I  should  clip  again. 

LV. 

Onward  went  fox  and  hounds,  and  onward  still, 
As  if  they  followed  in  the  very  track, 

Went  Juan  and  his  rival,  with  a  will, 
But  little  observation,  and  no  reck, 

As  they  swept  o'er  an  open  field,  until 

The  Don's  steed  held  the  better  by  a  neck, 

And  seemed  resolved  to  hold  it  if  he  could ; 

Plantagenet  thought  "  curse  him  if  he  should !" 

LVI. 

Which  might  have  won,  and  come  in  first  at  death 
(The  fox's),  no  one  knows,  an  ugly  wall 

Broken  half  down  (the  stones  lay  round  beneath), 
That  had  been,  and  was  yet,  exceeding  tall, 

Bounded  the  prospect ;  men  who  cared  for  breath 
Would  have  done  as  the  rest  did,  one  and  all, 

They  swept  around  it,  but  did  Juan  mind  them  ? 

Did  he  or  his  antagonist  look  behind  them  ? 

LVII. 

Not  so.     They  spurred  their  horses  at  the  wall, 
Juan's  went  over  and  rolled  on  the  ground 

With  both  forelegs  bent  under  like  a  ball, 

And  broken  short,  so  Juan's  head  spun  round, 


And  Juan's  self,  with  speed  and  shock  and  fall, 

Was  fitted  for  a  monumental  mound, 
By  having  fourteen  fractured  ribs  bespoken, 
His  neck  about  half,  and  his  arm  quite  broken. 

LVIII. 

Lord  Fitz  Plantagenet  was  spared  the  pain, 
The  trouble  and  expense  of  such  a  shock, 
His  horse  raised  at  the  wall,  but  raised  in  vain, 

Fell  back,  and  crushed  him  like  a  ponderous  rock ; 
With  such  a  falling  weight  on  neck  and  brain, 

'Twas  little  marvel  that  his  whole  neck  broke; 
Beneath  the  fallen  horse  a  stream  ran  out, 
1  Blood  from  a  body  dead  enough  no  doubt. 

LIX. 

One  lay  each  side  the  wall,  and  of  the  number 
One  broke  his  horse's  neck,  and  one  his  own. 

He  would  have  been,  if  rightly  I  remember, 
The  earl  of  Somewhere  if  he  had  lived  on, 
:  But  he  was  laid  in  a  foxhunting  slumber, 
Among  a  heap  of  monumental  stone; 

Stars,  garters,  blazoned  shields,  and  all  the  rest, 

That  makes  a  man  rot  pleasantly  at  last. 

LX. 

Not  till  some  days  had  passed ;  but  this  one  ends 
His  life  and  our  connexion,  and  the  duties 

Called  burial,  attended  by  one's  friends, 
Are  full  of  rather  melancholy  beauties ; 

The  sins  we  have,  our  burial  seldom  mends, 
And  every  fault,  a  friend  will  tell  how  true  'tis, 

It  is  as  well,  perhaps,  to  close  with  breath, 

And  make  a  final  reckoning  time  at  death. 

LXI. 

But  onward  dashed  the  train — You'll  not  suppose 
The  tragedy  entirely  without  witness, 

For  as  the  noble  steeds  for  that  leap  rose,  [fleetness, 
And  fell  worn  out  by  their  strained  struggling 

The  warning  shout  on  many  pale  lips  froze 
Half  muttered,  at  the  danger  and  imfitness, 

There  was  one  shriek  rang  out  as  Juan  fell, 

But  whose  lips  gave  it,  no  one  there  could  tell. 

Lxn. 

Was  it  the  dutchess,  or  Aurora  Raby  ? 

Or  the  cold  haughty  Lady  Adeline  ? 
That  her  grace  did  not  shriek,  was  proper,  maybe, 

To  give  suspicion's  ear  no  outward  sign, 
And  that  Aurora  did  not  act  the  baby, 

Dwelt  far  more  with  her  conscience  than  with 
That  Lady  Adeline  did  both  genteelly,  [mine ; 

Though  quite  unnoticed,  I  will  make  oath  freely. 

LXIII. 

Quick  drew  the  reins,  and  every  saddle  seat 
Was  empty,  as  they  flung  them  to  the  ground, 

And  found  that  Juan's  heart  had  yet  a  beat; 
By  one  delirious  stare  his  eyes  threw  round, 

'Twas  hardly  longer  real  death  to  meet, 

When    Fitz    Plantagenet's    crushed    form   they 

Juan  relapsed  into  apparent  death,  [found ; 

A  mockery  too  complete  for  living  breath. 

LXIV. 

|  And  yet,  he  lived ;  a  litter  and  a  bier 

Bore  back  to  Norman  Abbey  two  young  forms, 
That,  gay  that  morning  with  the  hunter's  cheer, 

Were  fitted,  one  for  doctors,  one  for  worms; 
Both  species  in  their  practice,  quite  severe, 
Both  fatal  to  all  limbs,  from  legs  to  arms, 
Both  necessary,  one  to  fill  a  grave, 
I  The  other,  to  take  fees,  and  kill,  and  save. 


14 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LXV. 

Both  in  a  worldly  sense,  I  will  confess 

charge  too  much  upon  our  fellow-man  — 

Of  good  or  evil,  heap  up  too  much  stress 

.  hat  is  but  a  part  of  (iod's  great  plan 

Say  that  pr 

r.nder  praise  or  ban, 

That,  as  n  general  principle,  plnsici 

Do  not  endeavor  to  n.  renditions. 

LX\I. 
Lawyer,  priest,  doctor,  are  a  common  stock 

Of  rich  joke  for  the  satirist's  enjoyment, 
Thin  patient,  cl.  llock, 

Are  all  well-p  |  wit's  employment, 

But  IUM,"  w.  11-Mlted,  is  a  mock,  - 

The  debt  AV  <  \  >ns  to  destroy  meant, 

And  v.  .  though  the  erowd's  laughter  tickle 

In  being  flat,  and  palpably  ridiculous.  [us 


Wit  turns  back  on  the  poet,  there,  thank  Heaven, 
There's  little  ridicule,  because  no  envy, 

He  has  no  stateliness  to  be  forgiven, 
And  little  of  the  gold  of  other  men,  he 

Makes  no  pretensions  to  the  inflated  leaven 

That  puffs  up  the  professions  —  well,  what  then  ? 

Like  the  professions,  busy,  proud,  and  useful,    [he, 

Smiles  as  they  do,  when  the  rest  grow  abuseful. 

LXVIII. 

The  doctors  must  be  had  ;  this  seemed  the  case 
At  Norman  Abbey,  so  the  nearest  cure 

(Not  minister)  came  at  a  doctor's  pace, 

And  dropping  reins  to  servants  at  the  door, 
§  Bowed  in  a  most  portentous  looking  face, 
With  a  small  body  following,  to  be  sure, 

And  a  prodigious  pair  of  specs  preceding, 

That  might  have  served  any  old  grandaine's  reading, 

LXIX. 
Took  snuff,  declared  the  case  was  very  bad, 

The  gentleman  was  most  compoundly  fractured, 
Inquired  how  he  was  hurt,  but  thought  he  had 

Seen  cases  quite  as  difficult,  well  doctored  — 
Applied  some  bandages,  was  very  glad 

He'd  heard  old  Doctor  Splinters  when  he  lectured, 
Showed  out  his  erudition  and  his  sorrow, 
And  took  leave  promising  to  call  "  to-morrow." 

L\ 

t  closed  upon  the  abbey  :  fever  crept 
Upon  the  brui  ^ide 

had  bf'cn  watchers,  but  the  watch  they  kept 
Had  yielded  to  propriety  and  pride. 
Lord  Henry  not  yet  home,  the  dutehess  slept— 
Something  fai  her  iii'jnnivj's  ride, 

The  dead  lord  h:>  '.  and  with  him, 

That  thought  of  death  that  makes  the  heart  so  dim. 

F.V  ' 
w,  and,  as  it  had  not  ; 

•icsts, 

Th<  One  on  no  brilliant  s<-« 

.Mirth--: 

I.  at  the  mean, 
that  sad  da  heartless  quests  ; 

•>  had  its  sway 
>t  night's  iti  not  to  say. 

XII. 
And  they  had  skipped  some  :  v  5  were  prest 

At  that  unfashionable  hour,  and  sleep 
Came  e'en  to  idlf-n^o,  it  :  --.sed 

Those  who  had  witnessed  all  that  fearful  leap 


Slumbered  not  quite  so  calmly  as  the  rest, 

And  one  saw  in  her  dreams  a  mangled  heap 
That  bore  two  faces,  it  is  plain  to  draw 
The  forms  and  figures  that  Aurora  saw. 

LXXIII. 

And  Juan  was  alone,  beside  the  bed 

Stood  some  few  things  upon  a  covered  stand 

So  near,  that  in  the  fever's  hour  of  dread 

Hi   might  have  dashed  them  from  the  table,  and 

As  pallid  as  the  pillow  at  his  head 

Lay  on  the  sheet  his  one  uninjured  hand ; 

The  nurse  was  where  nurses  will  be  sometimes 

In  real  life,  and  so  of  course  in  rhymes. 

LXX1V. 

lie  slept,  he  dreamed ;  oh,  burning  fever-dreams, 
It  needs  not  that  I  whisper  what  ye  are, 

It  needs  not  that  I  speak  life's  wasted  aims, 
Or  tell  again  the  shadowy  clouds  that  mar 

The  dawuiiit,'  light  of  fancy  in  her  beams, 
Setting  between  my  soul  and  hope,  a  bar 

That  will  not  be  removed,  and  it  needs  not 

Here  that  I  paint  again  my  own  dark  lot, 

LXXV. 

But  at  my  elbow  parted  friendship  stands, 
And  close  beside  me  lies  a  wasted  form 

With  glaring  eyeballs,  and  with  tossing  hands, 
Tossed  like  oak  branches  in  an  autumn  storm, 

The  stranger's  legacy  from  other  lands 
Of  his  rich  youth  to  the  devouring  worm, 

This,  this  is  fever,  this  is  fever's  dream. 

And  I  run  wild  on  this  congenial  theme. 

LXXVI. 

He  slept,  he  dreamed  ;  they  tell  me  that  the  soul 
Reveals  in  dreams  its  hidden  spots  of  sin, 

The  darker  feelings  waking  hours  control 
In  the  unguarded  hour  let  vision  in  ! 

I  know  that  dreams  have  helped  me  to  unroll 
Brightness,  where  I  deemed  not  that  it  had  been, 

And  from  the  sleeper's  lips  I  have  drawn  more 

Of  true  affection  than  I  dreamed  before. 

LXXVII. 

Hark  !  from  the  sleeper's  lips  a  smothered  cry, 
A  "  bubbling  groan"  half-broken,  till  it  sinks 

To  the  unwritten  fervor  of  a  sigh, 

Or  rings  in  a  low  kiss,  like  silver  links — 

Brings  back  a  voice  of  youthful  memory, 
An  1  tells  us  that  asrain  the  dreamer  thinks 

The  love  he  feisrns  for  the  world's  outward  siu'l  t, 

The  birth  of  what  is  grown  an  old  delight. 

LXXVIII. 

Was  he  alone  ?     There  came  a  stilly  step 
As  of  a  mother  by  her  sick  child's  couch, 

An  I  as  she  saw  he  slept,  finger  on  lip, 
The  carpet-math  scarce  yielding  to  the  touch 

Of  that  liirht  careful  footstep,  with  a  sip        [much 
Of  the  warm  breath   !•  -t   ^hr  had   breathed  to<. 

As  if  her  whole  soul  on  the  sleeper  centred, 

The  lady  Adeline  looked  in  and  entered. 

LXXIX. 

Was  he  alone  ?  Not  so,  she  took  the  seat 
By  his  bedside,  and  looked  upon  his  face, 

And  tried  the  temples'  faint  and  fluttering  beat 
By  the  dim  lamplight  shed  around,  to  trace; 

II'  lit,  till  h'-r  yr;y  breath,  so  warm  and  sweet, 
Mingled  with  his,  almost  in  an  embrace, 

Bent  down  and  listened,  as  the  fever  gave 

A  buried  name  from  its  untimely  grave. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


15 


LXXX. 

And  Juan  spoke  of  Haidee ;  was  it  not  [now, 

Strange  that  his  first  love  slept — Spain  came  not 

But  that  lone  Grecian  isle,  its  lonelier  grot, 

And  a  young  girl  with  angel  eyes  and  brow, 
;  Who  deemed  it  heaven,  in  her  untutored  lot, 
To  hold  him  on  her  bosom,  and  to  grow 

Beloved  and  loving,  all  incorporate 

With  his  wild  dreamy  soul  and  wayward  fate. 

LXXXI. 

[His  fevered  lips  opened  with  Haidee's  name, 
He  called  her  with  the  loving  voice  of  old, 

When  Juan  was  not  bowed  to  regal  shame, 
The  minion  of  rich  luxury  and  gold, 

His  lips  made  mockery  of  that  parted  claim, 
His  hand  half-raised  the  lost  one  to  enfold, 

And  then  there  was  a  start,  a  feverish  start, 

A  groan,  as  if  it  pierced  him  to  the  heart. 

LXXXII. 

Lambro  stood  o'er  him,  and  the  minstrel  lay 

Of  grief  for  Greece,  died  on  the  sounding  string, 

Till  the  last  tone  in  terror  passed  away, 
An  agonizing  shriek  that  none  may  sing, 

The  fingers  worked  and  clutched  convulsively 
As  if  they  grasped  a  steel,  a  darker  wing 

Still  darker,  passed  across  the  horizon, 

And  that  lost  face  and  buried  name  were  gone. 

LXXXIII. 

80  he  had  loved,  and  had  been  loved  as  well, 
The  lady  Adeline  knew  from  his  voice, 

Knew  there  had  been  a  time  when  ruin  fell 
Upon  his  young  affection  and  his  choice, 

And  pitied  him,  how  much  I  may  not  tell, 
Whether  she  did  not  feel  his  buried  joys, 

Whether  she  did  not  wish  her  name  had  been 

The  one  bright  spot  that  memory  kept  so  green. 

LXXXIV. 

The  "  frozen  wine"  was  thawing,  that  within 

Melted  it  gently,  imperceptibly, 
As  unpolluted  and  as  free  from  sin 

As  when  it  kept  that  frozen  lethargy, 
And  though  such  meltings,  when  they  once  begin, 

Sometimes  warm  icebergs  to  a  boiling  sea, 
In  this,  not  so,  the  lady  Adeline 
Shall  never  sully  on  a  page  of  mine. 

LXXXV. 

Did  she  love  Juan  ?  not  if  love  is  fire 
And  fire  for  ever,  not  if  love  allures 

Ever  to  sensual  feeling  and  desire, 
But  if  love  sometimes  filters,  fades,  and  pures — 

Till  brightest  incense  burns  upon  the  pyre 
And  glories  most  in  what  it  most  endures, 

And  not  the  incense  it  receives — then  sooth 

She  loved,  half  idolized,  that  graceless  youth. 

LXXXVI. 

The  Donna  Julia  loved  him  for  his  love, 

And  Haidee  for  himself,  Gulbeyaz  sought  him 

As  a  plaything,  the  empress  matched  the  move, 
And  as  a  minion  to  her  pleasure  bought  him, 

Young,  noble,  and  a  Don,  all  given  to  prove 
Self,  in  the  flatteries  that  London  brought  him, 

The  dutchess  of  Fitz  Fulke  found  more  than  danger, 

In  the  attractions  of  the  "handsome  stranger." 

LXXXVII. 

All  far  apart,  yet  here  there  was  another 
And  different  in  its  being  from  the  rest, 

Not,  feeling  as  a  sister  for  a  brother, 
That  never  knows  a  pulse  of  sweet  unrest, 


Not  the  same  feeling  that  the  tender  mother 

Is  proud  to  nurse  in  her  maternal  breast, 
Yet  like  them  both,  in  the  still  calm  delight 
That  seems  necessity,  and  almost  right. 

LXXXVIII. 

But  for  comparison,  I  had  half  meant 
To  call  in  Willis  and  his  Lady  Jane, 

To  say  that  Lady  Adeline's  intent 
Of  loving  and  of  bearing  all  the  pain, 

Was  very  like  the  being  he  has  sent 
To  swell  so  sadly  the  ideal  train, 

Like  her  in  her  devotion,  not  like  her 

In  playing,  without  risk,  the  worshipper. 

LXXXIX. 

But  the  world  holds  a  difference ;  she  who  took 
Young  Jules  a  boy,  and  learned  him  to  be  man, 

In  step  and  gesture,  in  his  speech  and  look, 
And  trained  his  gushing  feelings  till  they  ran 

Far  from  her  bosom,  like  a  truant  brook 
That  leaves  in  waywardness  its  native  glen, 

She  was  not  bound  unto  another's  name, 

And  love  acknowledged,  wrought  no  other  shame. 

XC. 

Sweet  Lady  Jane,  her  history  is  wrought 
As  few  men  living  could  have  written  it, 

By  one  who  in  society  and  thought 
Has  made  himself  a  privilege  to  sit 

Among  the  loved  of  genius — fearing  naught 
From  the  unkindness  of  the  critics'  wit, 

Wrought  by  a  name  that  honors  our  bright  land,. 

Wrought  by  a  poet's  heart  and  poet's  hand. 

XCI. 

Ah  well,  the  lady  Adeline  had  married 
As  marriages  are  done  in  England  often, 

In  circumstances  where  broad  lands  are  carried 
By  marriage  settlements  with  house  and  croft  in, 

In  circumstances  where  both  sides  are  hurried, 
With  much  to  irritate,  little  to  soften, 

Where  if  both  parties  are  not  too  ill-natured 

They  have  few  quarrels,  very  little  hatred, 

XCII. 
And  not  a  spark  of  love.     Oh  riches,  riches, 

Oh  rank,  oh  fortune,  noble  blood  and  title! 
The  dull  plebeians  whom  your  sound  bewitches, 

Would  judg'd  a  difference  if  they  judge  aright  all, 
They  might  see  some  aristocratic  hitches, 

And  aristocracy  with  no  requital,  [through, 

They  might  see,  could  they  read  the  whole  page 
Some  things  that  would  not  make  them  envy  you. 

XCIII. 

For  instance — ill-assorted  marriages, 
One  of  the  curses  of  a  high-born  race, 

Collectively,  from  kings  and  princesses 
To  several  degrees  below  "  your  grace" — 

That  lays  much  stress  on  some  conveniences, 
And  gives  affection  very  little  place, 

The  consequence  is — sometimes  hale  inherent, 

And  sometimes  doubt  about  the  heir  apparent. 

XCIV. 

The  earl  of  C.  marries  my  lady  A., 

Their  two  estates  make  such  a  nice  ring-fence, 
My  lady  chanced,  before  he  stopped  the  way, 

To  love  Sir  Simon  L. ;  on  some  pretence, 
Sir  Simon  visits  them  sometimes  a  day, 

And  gets  detained  by  trivial  accidents, 
Till,  what  ?  as  husbands  are  such  touchy  fellows, 
The  earl  grows  most  unreasonably  jealous. 


16 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XCV. 

The  earl  of  D.  marries  my  lady  S., 

Who  happens  never  to  have  loved  at  all, 

To  have  a  heart  in  total  emptiness, 

The  likelier  to  catch  what  love  may  fall ; 

And  the  new  countess  in  a  brilliant  dress, 
Captures  a  hussar  colonel  at  a  ball, 

Happens  herself  to  be  more  captivated, 

And  leaves  the  unpleasant  consequences  stated. 

XCVI. 

All  this,  to  build  myself  a  broad  platform, 
On  which  to  plant  a  valuable  maxim, 

If  the  world  follow  my  judicial  arm 

And  budget  of  advice,  when  I  annex  them, 

'Twill  prove  a  kind  of  talismanic  charm, 

And  pay  them  for  the  words  with  which  I  tax 

In  the  most  cases,  as  a  general  principle,        [them : 

Marriage  without  affection's  reprehensible. 


XCVII. 

The  lady  Adeline  was  Lord  Henry's  wife, 
And  he  had  sought  and  wooed,  proposed  and  won 

Treated  her  always,  to  be  true  and  brief,         [her, 
With  a  wife's  duty  and  a  husband's  honor; 

His  mind,  not  cold,  was  formal,  and  as  stiff, 

As  were  the  pleasant  nothings  he  had  done  her; 

For  heart — he'd  given  her  what  he  possessed, 

Parliament  and  the  public  had  the  rest. 

XCVIII. 

He  loved  her,  as  he  loved  all  womankind, 
No  doubt  a  little  more  from  circumstances, 

As  he  could  not  help  bringing  up  to  mind, 

How  when  a  "  fiancee"  she'd  shared  his  dances, 

Avowal  and  acceptation  linked  behind, 
With  all  that  he  was  capable,  in  glances  ; 

He  loved  her  as  a  man  who  can  not  love 

The  springing  wildwood  and  the  cooing  dove  ! 

XCIX. 

He  loved  her  with  respect,  so  she  loved  him, 
So  she  had  loved  him,  for  their  wedded  years, 

And  though  her  queen-like  eyes  had  ne'er  been  dim 
For  cold  Lord  Henry  with  a  woman's  tears, 

Though  she  kept  not  over  his  every  limb, 

The   trembling   watcli  of  woman's   murmuring 

Had  not  Don  Juan  woke  her  with  a  start,     [fears, 

She  still  had  deemed  herself  without  a  heart. 


C. 

But  Juan  came,  she  looked  on  him  with  pleasure, 
And  took  his  moral  character  in  charge, 

And  (as  the  reader  knows)  tried  in  a  measure, 
To  save  him  from  her  grace's  conquering  barge, 

Might  ne'er  have  known  what  she  began  to  treasure 
In  thoughts,  till  Juan's  fall  set  them  at  large, 

And  stood  beside  and  loved  him  as  he  slept, 

With  thoughts  as  pure  as  vestal  ever  kept. 

CI. 

Thoughts  that  she  never  stained,  for  on  the  page 

Of  woman's  weakness  and  of  woman's  art, 
Tis  pleasant  to  lay  down  a  brighter  gage, 

To  tell  that  her  true  bosom  owes  the  heart 
To  virtue  and  to  honor,  that  the  sage 

Who  played  so  many  years  the  pilgrim's  part, 
Found  at  the  last,  with  gems  from  earth  and  sea, 

His  brightest  jewel,  woman's  purity. 


CANTO  III. 
I. 

A  MONTH — let's  dance  and  sing  and  caracole, 
The  month  in  nature,  while  we  skip  in  rhyme, 

For  'tis  the  part  of  wisdom  on  the  whole, 
Among  the  summer  months  in  such  a  clime, 

To  take  things  easily ;  let  life  and  soul 
Drink  in  the  drowsy  influence  of  the  time, 

Let's  be,  wanting  the  Turk's  magnificence, 

Worse  than  the  Turk  in  drowsy  indolence. 

n. 

j  Let's  dance  and  sing,  when  we  are  not  too  lazy, 

And  take  a  turn  at  sleeping,  when  we  are, 
1  Let's  take  especial  pains  not  to  grow  crazy. 

On  very  knotty  points  in  love  or  war ; 
Let's  make  an  atmosphere  pleasant  and  hazy, 

Through  which  we  only  spy  a  single  star, 
And  let  that  star  be  happily  compounded, 
Of  love  with  eastern  drapery  surrounded. 

III. 

Oh  happiness  !  the  senseless  rabble  chase  thee, 

And  will  be  likely  to,  till  the  world  ends, 
!  And  when  they  chance  to  find,  they  dare  not  face 
Or  greet  in  ignorance  thy  celestial  hands,  [thee, 
|  And,  of  a  hundred  men,  'tis  odds  they  place  thee 

In  about  ninety-nine  quite  different  lands, 
But  let  me  have  my  way  a  year  or  so, 
And  I  will  hold  thee  in  my  clutch,  I  know, 

IV. 

And  find  thee  in  a  paradise — a  paradise 
That  does  not  at  the  present  time  exist, 

Being  bound  too  much  with  the  world's  very  narrow' 
And  wandering  too  much  in  a  haze  of  mist,  [ties, 

For  we  permit  the  houri,  though  such  rarities, 
To  flee  us,  ere  we  have  them  fairly  kissed ; 

Whose  fault  drives  off  so  soon  our  sweetest  minions, 

Raises  a  world  of  different  opinions. 

V. 

Suffice  it  they  are  gone  ;  for  the  groundwork 
Of  my  small  paradise,  I'll  take  the  harem 

As  it  exists  among  the  turbaned  Turk, 

With  more  affection,  more  of  fiarem  scarem, 

Less  cold  authority,  that  bids  hate  lurk 

Beneath  neglected  bosoms  when  you  bare  them, 

No  eunuchs,  no  rnaid  mothers,  more  vitality, 

And  if  it  might  be,  more  of  sensuality. 

VI. 

No  slavery — love  will  not  bend  to  compulsion, 
Although  its  victims  bow  to  pride  and  force, 

The  bosom  flies  with  shudder  and  revulsion, 
From  a  compelled  unsympathetic  course  ; 

Know  that  you  can  not  drive  on  by  propulsion, 
That  which  was  made  free  as  the  bounding  horse, 

But  learn  that  fondness  and  a  soft  caress, 

With  springing  love  the  coldest  heart  will  bless. 

VII. 

There  should  be  silken  couch,  and  mirrored  room, 
And  forms  as  airy  as  the  poet's  dream, 

And  rosy  curtains,  making  a  soft  gloom 
When  day  was  too  intrusive  with  its  beam, 

There  should  be  fountains,  vases  of  perfume, 
And  soothing  sounds,  as  of  a  falling  stream, 

There  should  be  forms  (and  I  could  name  them) 
!  Weaving  light  fingers  in  my  clustering  huir.  [there, 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


17 


VIIL 

But  on  mature  reflection,  'twere  as  well 
Not  to  describe  my  paradise  too  closely, 

Lest  some  of  my  acquaintances  rebel, 

And  think  my  morals  sit  on  me  too  loosely ; 

'Tis  what  I  would  be,  never  what  I  shall, 
For  here,  it  seems,  love  runs  not  so  profusely, 

And  though  your  humble  servant  may  not  bless  it, 

Expects  to  live  right  moral  from  necessity.          [he 

IX. 

But  foremost  in  my  mind  has  always  been, 
A  sense  of  good  they  call  the  paramount, 

That  helps  me  through  whatever  stage  I'm  in, 
And  takes  the  current  sides  into  account ; 

And  one  good  maxim  I  have  learned  to  win, 
By  dipping  in  this  very  moral  fount, 

And  that  is,  when  I  can  not  get  the  best, 

To  make  myself  contented  with  the  rest. 

X. 

There's  little  prospect  from  my  horoscope, 

Of  being  eastern  emperor  or  vizier ; 
I  do  not  think  (to  judge  my  present  scope) 

That  I  shall  ever  be  a  man  of  pleasure ; 
Riches  are  far  beyond  my  utmost  hope, 

To  mark  the  sinking  of  paternal  treasure, 
And  what  remains  ?     To  let  the  dog-star  rage, 
And  deem  myself  the  happiest  of  the  age. 

XI. 

To  be  as  indolent  as  possible, 

To  grow  as  happy  as  my  friends  will  let  me, 
To  have  my  locks  curled  pleasantly  and  well 

By  one  who  well  remembers  to  forget  me, 
But  throw  out  a  few  sparks  from  my 'heart's  hell, 

When  they  are  so  imprudent  as  to  fret  me, 
To  laugh  and  weep  at  fortune  and  fatality, 
And  skip  a  month  in  rhyme  and  in  reality. 

XII. 

We've  dropped  an  early  friend — left  Juan  lying 
In  an  extremely  pleasant,  quiet  bed, 

Not  very  well,  and  not  precisely  dying, 
But  with  life's  cord  a  very  brittle  thread, 

That  the  tired  bird  might  chafe  apart  by  flying ; 
With  fevered  brain,  a  watcher  by  his  head, 

At  nine  or  ten  o'clock,  one  August  night, 

Unconscious  of  the  gazer  or  her  sight. 

XIII. 

And,  like  a  thousand  things  that  I  might  name, 
He's  changed  his  place  while  I  have  moralized, 

And  truth,  my  motive  was  almost  the  same 
In  that  month's  sleep,  so  I  am  not  surprised, 

But  hope  congratulations  I  may  claim, 
On  having  him  so  mended  and  revised ; 

You  will  be  glad  that,  free  from  fall  and  fever, 

Don  Juan  was  almost  as  well  as  ever. 

XIV. 

And  Norman  Abbey  was  a  quiet  place, 
To  what  it  had  been  but  a  month  before ; 

The  troop  of  votaries  from  pleasure's  chase, 
Had  just  gone  back  into  her  festal  door, 

London,  of  course,  where,  in  the  changing  race, 
How  many  died,  or  killed  how  many  more, 

I'll  leave  to  free  conjecture — they  departed, 

All  reinvited,  and  some  thankless-hearted  : 

XV. 

To  rail  against  Lord  Henry's  shocking  wine, 
To  tell  how  shocking  Lady  Henry  looked, 

To  draw  comparisons  that  are  not  mine, 
Being  a  deal  too  cutting  to  be  booked ; 
2 


i  To  take  from  their  retirement  a  new  shine, 
To  dip  in  every  dish  that  London  cooked, 
j  To  be.  some  curious,  and  a  few  malicious, 
And  fewer  kind,  in  seasoning  scandal's  dishes. 

XVI. 
Sir  Harry  Silver  Cup  went  to  the  races, 

Longbow  to  Ireland,  Strongbow  to  the  Tweed, 
And  many  sporting  men  to  different  places, 
Of  whose  exact  spot  there  is  little  need ; 
All  left  so  very  quietly,  their  faces 

Were  only  missed  by  missing  groom  and  steed. 
|  Hist !  stay  !     There  was  one  parting  rather  sudden, 
That  all  the  guests  pronounced  a  very  odd  one. 

XVII. 

One  morn,  'twas  just  two  weeks  before  our  tale 
Reopens,  opened  a  new  kind  of  annals, 

The  dutchess  of  Fitz  Fulke,  carriage  and  all, 
With  grooms,  outriders,  coroneted  panels, 

And  so  et  cetera,  rolled  from  the  hall, 

After  unusual  care  of  trunks  and  flannels, 

And  her  ripe  grace  being  handed  in  the  side, 
I  In  a  new  mood  of  quite  becoming  pride. 

XVIII. 

Her  grace  forgot,  or  scorned,  to  say  farewell, 
To  judge  from  looks  and  actions,  and  she  passed 

('Twas  noticed,  you  may  guess,  and  told  as  well) 
The  lady  Adeline  with  a  scornful  cast, 

Nodded  Lord  Henry,  as  if  she  would  chill, 
And  turned  away  with  half  a  glance  at  last ; 

Behavior  very  uncouth  in  a  guest, 

But  quite  reciprocated,  at  the  least. 

XIX. 

With  our  old  privilege  of  entering 

Into  all  hidden  undiscovered  mysteries, 

In  which  we  imitate  sometimes  Tom  King, 
And  sometimes  presbyterian  consistories, 

We'll  dive  into  this  mooted  doubt,  and  bring 
To  light,  all  possible  in  all  their  histories, 

And,  if  we  can,  resolve  this  striking  doubt, 

Of  what  put  guest  and  hostess  so  much  out. 

XX. 

One  night  had  told  too  much,  and  while  the  lady 
Sat  by  the  sleeper's  bedside,  she  had  heard 

The  strange  but  sweet  name  of  the  Grecian  Haidee, 
And  one  that  seemed  a  more  familiar  word, 

And,  knowing  not  a  thought  of  what  he  said,  he 
Revealed  enough  to  have  suspicion  stirred 

Of  that  dark  gallery,  and  its  living  ghost, 

Still  more,  till  one  suspicion  drew  a  host. 

XXI. 

And  strange  to  say,  next  day,  behind  the  curtain 
In  her  fair  grace's  bedroom,  there  were  found 

A  cloak  and  cowl,  and  very  like,  'tis  certain, 
To  those  worn  by  the  friar  in  his  round, 

And  such  a  mind  as  Adeline's,  alert  in 
The  qualities  with  which  police  abound, 

Drew  inferences  in  themselves  quite  savorable, 

And  with  quite  truth  enough  to  be  unfavorable. 

XXII. 

What  followed  ?  something  very  womanlike, 
And  manlike  also,  if  the  truth  is  known, 

The  common  tendency  in  blame  to  strike 
The  one  whose  character  is  hurt,  alone  : 

Let  me  be  understood— both  Kate  and  Dick 
Think  of  the  woman's  frailty  with  a  groan, 

But  quite  forget  the  proper  share  of  blame, 

To  him  who  shared  the  guilt,  and  should  the  shame- 


18 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XXIII. 

She  thought  the  dutchess  sadly  out  of  place, 
In  spoiling  the  young  gentleman's  good  morals; 

Felt  that  she  could  not  quit*'  insult  her  grace — 
That  Norman  Abbey  was  no  place  for  quarrels ; 

So  Lady  Adeline  set  her  mind  at  ease, 
By  being  most  politely  cold  before  halls 

And  dinner-tables — the  best  way  you  please 

To  put  a  guest  completely  off  her  ease. 

XXIV. 
The  dutchess  drew  unpleasant  inferences  : 

Knew  that  the  Lady  Adeline  was  nurse, 
That  Juan,  in  hi?-  grateful  coniidences, 

Might  have  told  all  the  truth,  and  made  it  worse  ; 
She  feared  a  little  for  the  consequences 

Ending,  if  made  too  public,  with  divorce; 
Grew  cold  as  Lady  Adeline,  and  vowed 
She  could  be  quite  as  bitter  and  as  proud. 

XXV. 

And  yet  she  lingered  there — was  there  a  why  1 
'Twas  known  the  season  had  not  opened  yet, 

And  she  had  laid  a  certain  period  by 
To  spend  at  the  Amundevilles'  country-seat : 

She  could  not  leave  the  abbey  quite  as  I 

Would  leave  the  mansion  where  I  chance  to  get — 

With—4'  I  would  stay  much  longer,  if  I  could," 

And  the  reply,  "  I  really  wish  you  would  !" 

XXVI. 

And  yet  she  lingered  there  :  a  sudden  whim 
That  came  into  her  brain,  did  more,  perhaps, 

To  put  her  pleasant  grace  in  travelling  trim 
Than  all  the  past  and  its  hair-breadth  escapes : 

Her  grace  had  formed  a  plan — it  would  not  seem 
That  she  had  bile  enough  for  forming  traps, 

But  faith  !  she  had — as  we  shall  see  them  when 

And  she  dashed  unexpectedly  to  London,      [done — 

XXVII. 
Let's  follow  her,  as  they  did,  in  two  weeks ; 

That  means  as  soon  as  we  can  well  remove 
Our  country  scenes  to  city  stones  and  bricks, 

Summer  below  to  winter  spent  above ; 
Let's  look  upon  the  store  of  summer  cheeks 

Doomed  to  be  faded  in  a  winter's  "  love ;" 
Let's  look— the  Lord  knows  where — I'm  getting 
And  this  infernal  pen  is  not  inspired  !  [tired, 

XXVIII. 
I  am  not  indolent :  oh  no  ! — I  write 

When  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  occasion  ; 
I  fill  my  hours  of  leisure,  to  indite 

Letters  to  something  less  than  half  the  nation  ; 
But  with  all  my  industry — "  by  this  light" 

I  tire  of  manual,  mental  application  ;  [ows, 

My  pen's  poor,  brain  confused — avaunt !  ye  shad- 
Fly  back  with  Norman  Abbey  and  its  meadows  ! 

XXIX. 

September — and  the  world  had  done  with  summer, 
And  the  world  crowded,  bustled  back  to  town  ; 

Hotels  were  filled  again,  bar-maids  in  tremor, 
And  landlords  smoothing  out  an  extra  frown  : 

About  the  same  was  passed  by  every  comer  % 
That  passed  in  August  when  he  bustled  down ; 

And  Norman  Abbey,  when  its  guests  departed, 

Bore  evident  marks  of  being  soon  deserted. 

XXX. 

Lord  Henry  had  a  caucus  to  attend, 

Don  Juan,  quite  recovered,  had  his  mission, 

The  Lady  Adeline  must  meet  a  friend 
Or  two,  or  fifty,  and  see  her  physician ; 


Aurora  Raby  was  in  Cumberland, 

And  had  quite  faded  from  the  party's  vision : 
They  might  see  her  in  Blank-Blank  square  that  sea- 
Provided  she  came  back  to  town  and  reason  !  [son, 

XXXI. 

Don  Juan  thought  he  would,  or  somewhere  else  ; 

And  that  month's   sickness  had  quite  made  his 
She  had  not  come  to  chat  and  feel  his  pulse,    [mind 

As  some  had  done,  a  little  over-kind  ; 
Her  face  (and  sometimes  'tis  the  truth  it  tells) 

Showed  far  less  pity  than  he'd  hoped  to  find ; 
For  the  first  time  in  life,  Juan  was  piqued, 
And  his  self-confidence  just  slightly  kicked. 

XXXII. 
Once  more  in  Blank-Blank  square — by  the  request 

Of  both  my  lord  and  lady — he  intended 
To  be  some  half  a  dozen  days  their  guest 

In  town,  till  their  returning-calls  were  ended, 
When  he  meant  solemnly  to  do  his  best 

For  his  forgotten  mission,  ere  he  wended 
A  step  into  his  own  more  proper  line — 
The  south  voluptuous  and  the  feminine. 

XXXIII. 

An  evening  call  at  Lady  Pinchback's  told 

Juan  some  things  not  pleasant,  but  quite  new : 

Leila  began,  how  sweetly  !  to  unfold 

Her  sweet  face  to  the  fashionable  view — 

So  much  retiring,  yet  so  far  from  cold — 
It  plainly  was  not  London  where  she  grew ; 

And  she  was  happy,  as  a  fond,  warm  heart 

Can  be,  from  all  affection  shut  apart. 

xxxrv. 

She  moved  among  the  world  of  glare  and  glitter, 
She  lived  amid  right  fashionable  fineness ; 

And  the  enjoyments  wealth  alone  might  get  her, 
Had  been  provided  her  by  Juan's  kindness  ; 

And  yet  she  felt  how  lonely  and  how  bitter 
Life  is  without  a  little  loving  blindness  : 

She  felt  her  life  was  much  unfeeling  show — 

She  hung  on  Juan's  arm,  and  told  him  so  ! — 

XXXV. 

And  spoke  in  confidence  :  she  handed  him 
A  paper,  and  its  leader  headed  thus  : — 

"  We  feel  ourselves  something  obliged  to  trim 
*  The  Herald's'  article  of  so  much  fuss ; 

>Tis  plain  that  some  one  has  imposed  on  them 
As  we  would  not  let  them  impose  on  us; 

The  elopement  in  high  life  is  not  detected, 

Although  the  denouement  is  soon  expected. 

XXXVI. 

The  parties  spoken  of  have  come  in  town — 
The  stranger,  Lord  A ,  and  his  lady  wife." 

Then  Juan  laid  the  said  newspaper  down, 

And  turned  to  Leila :  "  Well,  what  now  is  rife  1 

Who  are  the  parties  not  exactly  gone  1 
I've  not  the  least  conception,  on  my  life!" 

And  Leila  said,  "  You  have  not  1  you're  in  danger, 

I  know  you  are — for  you're  this  wicked  stranger  !" 

XXXVII. 

"  The  Herald"  of  the  day  before,  revealed 

The  contradicted  article  in  full : — 
"  We're  sorry  that  it  can  not  be  concealed 

That  Lord  A-m-d-v  has  been  a  gull : 
The  final  business  yesterday  was  sealed 

By  the  quite  usual  but  unlucky  pull 
Of  an  elopement ;  the  frail  pair  are  gone— 
The  beauteous  Lady  A and  the  young  Don  ! 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


19 


XXXVIII. 
"  'Tis  rumored  that  the  lady's  the  seducer, 

In  a  great  measure  :  a  fox-hunting  fall, 
The  gallant  Don  took,  made  their  union  closer, 

Without  their  being  much  observed  by  all; 
No  doubt  the  young  Don  hated  to  refuse  her 

His  best  attendance  at  so  gay  a  call: 
This  is  a  warning,  as  it  should  be  one, 
To  keep  at  arm's  length  foreign  Count  and  Don  !" 

XXXIX. 

Extremely  sage,  all  that — slightly  surprising 

To  one  who  felt  so  very  innocent, 
As  the  Don  did,  of  any  frail  advising 

With  his  fair  hostess :  so  Don  Juan  bent, 
While  both  his  anger  and  his  blood  were  rising, 

And  asked  young  Leila  "  how  the  story  went." 
She  knew  not — she  had  not  been  telescopic, 
But  it  had  been  some  days  a  leading  topic. 

XL. 

Juan  was  angry,  vexed,  for  many  reasons  [scribed  : 
Which  may  be  guessed,  and  need  not  be  de- 

He'd  found  among  the  other  petty  treasons 
The  fair  and  young  in  England  had  imbibed — 

Too  great  a  number  of  illicit  laisons 
Were  even  in  reality  proscribed — 

Among  the  few,  I  mean ;  and,  of  that  few, 

Was  one  quite  interesting,  and  quite  new — 

XLL 
Aurora  Raby. — And  his  better  nature 

Pitied,  ay,  pitied  Lady  Adeline; 
He  felt  how  pain  must  harden  every  feature 

In  the  rich  chiselled  face  all  thought  divine; 
He  felt  the  cold  Lord  Henry's  nomenclature 

At  the  first  mention  of  a  doubtful  sign, 
Might  be  called  forth  for  bitter,  stern  reproach, 
Weaving  a  woof  right  dangerous  to  broach. 

XLII. 

And  then — what  then  ?     He  did  just  what  we  do 
When  we  have  opened  a  right  pleasant  book : 

After  just  glancing  at  a  page  or  two, 
To  see  if  sermon  or  romance,  we  look 

At  title-page  and  index — apropos, 

No  doubt,  before  we  eat,  to  know  the  cook : 

Juan  felt  curious  (natural  enough) 

To  know  the  author  of  this  pleasant  stuff. 

XLIII. 

"  Put  that  and  that  together,"  was  his  motto, 
As  it  is  mine,  and  was  old  Socrates' ; 

By  this,  the  nicest  reasoning  may  be  got  to, 
In  as  convenient  manner  as  you  please  ; 

By  this,  some  men  have  been  hung  who  ought  not  to, 
By  this,  some  rascals  have  escaped  with  ease : 

All  this  does  not  invalidate  the  saw — 

Without  exceptions  you  can't  make  a  law. 

XLIV. 

He  turned  to  Lady  Pinchback,  with  an  air 
Of  quiet  unconcern,  and  asked  if  any 

Of  their  last  winter's  round  had  settled  there 
Since  their  return,  and  if  there  had,  how  many. 

None,  at  their  very  doors  in  Blank-Blank  square, 
But  at  the  next,  Lady  Sophia  Fenny, 

A  dozen  on  aristocratic  crutches, 

And  last,  not  least,  their  mutual  friend  the  dutchess, 

XLV. 

Who,  she  was  told  (my  lady  never'd  gossip), 
Had  changed  her  style  of  living  altogether — 

Had  driven  the  quiet  crazy,  used  the  cross  up, 
And  proved  she  valued  old  friends  not  a  feather; 


Pitched  off  the  glad  and  gay  with  just  a  toss-up, 

And  lived,  in  fact,  in  very  frigid  weather — 
(Cold  after  heat,  you  know,  calm  after  thunder, 
And  ice  in  August — neither  worth  a  wonder.) 

XLVI. 
She  lived  a  paragon,  par  excellence, 

And  had  done  for  two  weeks,  since  she  came  back 
From  Norman  Abbey,  where  some  late  events 

Had  given  her  modest  feelings  quite  a  quake  : 
She'd  spoken  (did  not  mean  it)  with  comments 

Of  "  the  direction  things  were  soon  to  take, 
If  Lady  Adeline  kept  her  flirtation 
With  that  most  precious  sample  of  legation." 

XLVII. 

So  ho  !  'twas  all  explained,  proof  positive 
To  Juan  that  the  dutchess  had  well  planned 

To  be  beforehand  with  report,  and  give 
The  gossips  and  the  cliques  to  understand 

Any  attraction  he  might  have,  to  live 
An  extra  week  upon  Lord  Henry's  land, 

Might  be  accounted  for,  on  the  requests 

Of  the  fair  hostess,  and  not  of  her  guests. 

XLVIH. 
Specious  pretence,  adroitly  carried  out, 

And  rightly  judged  by  Juan  at  a  thought : 
He  read  the  game  that  she  had  woven  about, 

And  felt  'twas  quite  unpleasant  (as  he  ought)  ; 
Her  rigid  morals  silenced  any  doubt 

Her  grace's  previous  conduct  might  have  brought; 
London  believed  (as  it  believes  all  lies) 
That  Adeline  was  frail,  the  dutchess  wise. 

XLIX. 

How  far  the  dutchess  in  her  short  finesse 

Revealed  her  knowledge  of  the  world,  I  leave : 

Let  it  be  told  by  those  who  know  it  less, 
And  who  are  not  too  indolent  to  grieve ; 

But  one  idea  from  it  comes  to  bless, 
And  that  is,  that  opinion  is  a  sieve — 

As  all  sieves  are,  it  is  something  uneven, 

And  nothing  certain  of  how  much  'tis  leaving  ! 

L. 

One  thing  is  certain :  let  the  thief  forestall, 
And  hallo,  "  Stop  thief!"  at  another's  heels — 

In  the  most  cases,  although  not  in  all, 

Truth's  chariot  will  not  hurt  him  with  its  wheels ! 

The  world  will  be  so  sharp  in  letting  fall 
Its  anger  on  the  one  who  never  steals, 

That  the  keen  rogue  not  only  'scapes  its  wrath, 

But  picks  an  extra  pocket  in  his  path. 

LI. 

Morgan  O'Sullivan,  sometime  reporter, 
Was,  in  my  judgment,  a  philosopher — 

Proved  in  the  instance,  when,  to  make  time  shorter, 
He'd  roused  the  sleepy  commons  with  a  stir, 

And  a  poor  quaker,  with  a  face  like  Werter, 
Sat  by — he  just  accused  Penn's  follower  !  — 

The  officer  lugged  him  off,  you  may  swear, 

While  Morgan  tickled  at  a  joke  so  rare. 

LII. 
And  yet  the  joke's  not  rare ;  'tis  only  varied 

To" suit  time,  place,  and  anything  you  like  ; 
And  Morgan's  jokes,  less  innocent,  are  carried 

To  the  death-hour  of  many  a  hapless  "  Smike ;" 
Justice  and  Truth  seem  to  have  been  unmarried, 

And  Justice  (unjust)  takes  first  turn  to  strike : 
Truth  comes  in  lime  to  mourn  a  timeless  end — 
But  such  late  pity  death  can  hardly  mend. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LIII. 

So  pass  we. — There  was  food  for  speculation 
In  all  this  rigmarole,  to  Juan's  mind, 

With  the  best  care,  he  knew  his  situation 
With  the  lord  Henry,  must  be  most  unkind ; 

What  kind  of  reasoning  or  calculation 
In  his  most  subtle  logic  lurked  behind, 

No  one  can  fathom,  but  he  took  a  course, 

We  should  expect,  to  make  things  grow  much  worse. 

LIV. 

He  swore,  internally,  by  all  things  sacred 
He'd  meet  the  incensed  dutch  ess,  face  to  face, 

He'd  try  if  recollected  shame  could  make  red 
The  brilliant  cheek  of  her  most  proper  grace, 

He'd  do  a  dozen  things,  would  give  and  take  red 
Recriminations  as  quite  in  the  case, 

But  at  the  least  he'd  have  one  satisfaction, 

In  letting  off  the  steam  that  roused  his  action. 

LV.. 

He  thought,  no  doubt,  he  should  behold  her  now, 
The  lady  ripe  and  graceful,  in  a  blaze 

As  usual,  of  the  diamonds'  liquid  flow, 
With  her  old  quota  of  bewitching  ways, 

He  thought  to  find  her  whispering  very  low 
A  palliation  for  the  late  past  days, 

He  thought  to  find  her,  from  the  rest  estranged, 

But  in  her  weakness  for  him,  never  changed. 

LVI. 

He  drew  upon  erroneous  principles, 

Though  one  would  almost  know  them  to  be  true, 
That  the  dishonored  bosom  ne'er  rebels 

And  ne'er  refuses  what  'tis  used  to  do. 
I've  found  that  e'en  affection  coldly  swells 

And  only  gives  us  half  a  kiss  for  two, 
I've  made  my  mind  that,  as  a  rule  for  woman, 
What  is  once  done  may  not  be  done  in  common. 

LVII. 
Love  may  go  backward,  or  more  like  a  crab, 

Love  may  go  sidewise,  with  a  kind  of  motion 
Not  beneficial  to  the  tales  we  blab 

About  undying  love  and  fond  devotion ; 
Love  may  stand  still,  a  still  more  saucy  drab, 

And  keep  you  wavering  till  you're  out  of  notion, 
And  crime  (love's  most  especially)  won't  refuse, 
When  a  good  chance  appears,  to  slip  the  noose. 

LVIII. 

Some  six  o'clock,  and  in  the  ante-room, 
(Next  evening)  of  the  dutchess's  hotel, 

In  a  street  not  remarkable  for  gloom 

But  dark  enough  to  lose  its  name  as  well, 

Don  Juan  sat — a  flow  of  soft  perfume, 
An  open  door,  the  tinkling  of  a  bell — 

Don  Juan  stood  near  where  the  dutchess  sat, 

Queenlike,  imperial,  noble,  and  all  that. 

LIX. 

The  room  was  rich,   rich,  rich  and  very  chaste, 
No  ornament  but  such  as  one  half  chilled  you, 

There  was  no  lack  of  an  indulgent  taste, 
But  none  of  seraphic  Venuses  killed  you, 

No  curtnin  thnt  was  not  correctly  placed, 

No  Ganymede  that  Jove's  own  nectar  filled  you ; 

Naught  for  the  sense,  unless  that  sense  was  cold, 

Naught  save  for  very  stiff,  or  very  old. 

LX. 

And  on  a  seat  of  patriarchal  case 

That  might  have  been  a  couch,  or  throne,  or  both, 
Sat  the  fair  dutchess,  at  his  first  quick  gaze, 

Juan's  good  breeding  barely  saved  an  oath, 


The  features,  that,  to  look  back  thirty  days, 
Had  been  ripe  beauty  or  voluptuous  sloth, 
Were  pride,  cold  heartless  pride,  at  least  the  mask, 
And  what  lay  under,  who  may  dare  to  ask. 

LXI. 

She  was  alone — the  bow  Don  Juan  made, 
Was  but  acknowledged  with  a  stately  bend 

That  scarce  a  stranger's  greeting  had  repaid, 
And  how  much  less  a  confidential  friend ; 

It  would  have  thrown  entirely  in  the  shade 
A  man  of  ordinary  self-command, 

Or  one  whose  manners  had  been  tutored  less 

Than  Juan's,  in  cold  inexpressiveness. 

LXIL 

Bring  me  a  monarch's  frown,  a  prince's  scowl, 

A  judge's  merciless  unpitying  look, 
A  friar  frighting  a  departing  soul, 

By  the  grim  aids  of  candle,  bell,  and  book, 
Bring  me  Jehang ire's  features,  when  the  whole 

Of  that,  wild  eastern  world  before  him  shook, 
But  chill  us  as  they  will,  they  fail  to  freeze 
Like  woman's  brow  in  a  cold  haughty  ease. 

LXIII. 

She  sat  while  Juan  drew  near  to  inquire       [well," 
Her  grace's   health,  and  answered  him,  "  quite 

And  the  young  Don  saw  he'd  ne'er  raise  a  fire 
Without  the  feelings  could  be  made  to  swell, 

He  knew  how  much  o'er-hasty  words  inspire 

A  kind  of  shame  e'en  where  the  kindling  fell, 
j  He  trusted  to  o'ercome  the  lady's  coldness, 

He  cared  not  how,  in  anger  or  in  boldness. 

LXIV. 

He  asked  why  she  had  left  that  pleasant  circle 
At  Norman  Abbey,  e'er  the  rest  drew  off — 

Why  she  whose  wit  was  brightest  known  to  sparkle, 
Had  scarcely  come  to  look  at  him,  so  tough ! 

For  him  who  could  not  range  the  house  and  park  all, 
To  languish  without  company  enough 

He  asked,  but  still  she  sat  and  answered  not, 

And  her  changed  cheeks  show'd  ne'er  a  crimson  spot. 

LXV. 

Could  this  be  she  who  had  not  made  a  scruple 
To  give  her  very  name  into  his  mouth  ? 

Who  seemed  as  if  she  only  aimed  to  dupe  well 
The  cooler  soul  to  her  voluptuous  routh  ? 

It  was — in  truth  the  real  feelings  troop  well 

When  right  well  governed,  from  a  slippery  youth, 

And  by  the  time  that  he  had  thought  thus  far 

He  caught  the  dutchess's  new  point  of  war. 

LXVI. 

She  spoke  so  slowly,  calmly,  you  would  doubt 
Almost  that  she  was  speaking,  from  her  tenor, 

Save  from  the  cold  stern  mockery  that  flowed  out 
From  that  fair  temple  of  her  husband's  honor 

As  she  requested,  by  what  reasoning  'bout 
Her  length  of  visit  at  Lord  Henry's  manor 

Became  at  his  disposal,  by  what  right 

He  grew  so  confidentially  polite  ? 

LXVII. 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  say  "  the  right  of  lovr, 
That  had  been  confidential  on  her  part," 

But  deemed  it  would  be  an  unkindly  move 
To  probe  her  for  her  weaknesses  of  heart, 

Or  might  be  an  unlucky  way  to  prove 
Her  temper  waited  only  for  a  start 

That  could  be  violent,  would  be  unpleasant, 

And  might  stir  up  to  hate  long  and  incessant. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


21 


LXVIII. 

And  so  he  dropped  his  eyes  and  sunk  his  voice 
To  that  low  tone  that  he  had  used  before, 

When  Spain  was  pleasant,  Donna  Julia  nice, 
And  pleasure's  residence  kept  open  door, 

The  tone  a  woman's  heart  would  take  for  choice, 
And  for  the  ransom  her  own  heart  restore, 

A  tone  that  had  been  with  him  talismanic, 

And  saved  Haidee  from  a  too  sudden  panic. 

LXIX. 

He  almost  whispered,  was  this  the  resolve 
With  which  he  rode  toward  lhat  very  square  ? 

With  a  mind  bent  to  let  the  wheel  revolve 
And  hear  the  dutchess  from  her  easy  chair 

Pour  out  invectives  as  a  safety-valve, 

And  answer  them  with  the  same  injured  air  ? 

Certainly  not ;  his  foaming  fret  was  gone, 

And  his  devotion  to  the  sex  ran  on. 

LXX. 

And  so  he  told  her  in  a  pleasant  tone 

How  much  the  gathered  company  had  missed  her, 
And  how  the  lady  Adeline,  for  one, 

Regretted  her  departure  as  a  sister; 
The  chord  was  touched,  and  as  a  prude  had  done, 

When  some  free-hearted  dashing  fellow  kissed 

her, 

Her  eyes  flashed  once,  and  then  the  lady  spoke, 
But  ne'er  believe  her  guarded  line  she  broke. 

LXXI. 

I  question  if  there  is  a  harder  line 

In  all  the  world  to  draw,  than  such  as  this, 

To  make  deceit  and  earnestness  combine, 
To  join  the  serpent's  wisdom  with  his  hiss, 

And  while  the  tissue  of  deceit  we  twine 
To  let  the  feelings  burst  without  a  miss ; 

For  mark  me,  if  you  will,  you'll  often  find 

The  passionless  the  keenest  of  mankind. 

LXXII. 

And  he  who  binds  strong  passions  with  strong  will, 
And  lets  them  run  without  betraying  either — 

Is  lit.  for  any  post  of  mortal  skill, 

And  need  not  blanch  to  face  the  bitterest  weather, 

Obstacles  are  to  such,  the  shades  that  fill 

Adventure's  landscape,  stopping  not  a  feather, 

And  history  is  full  of  written  sooth 

To  prove  my  proposition  but  the  truth. 

LXXIII. 

The  conquerors  who  have  stood  upon  the  world, 
Have  lacked  so  much  in  this  essential  point, 

The  passionless  have  kept  their  bosoms  curled, 
Without  the  vigor  or  the  strength  to  foin't — 

The  passionate  so  freely  have  unfurled 
Their  banners,  as  to  put  them  out  of  joint, 

The  strong,  without  heads  of  sufficient  length, 

The  wise,  without  the  active  will  and  strength. 

LXX1V. 
Try,  ye  who  doubt  it;  set  yourselves  to  rail 

Against  him  whom  you  most  devoutly  hate, 
Obliged  to  coin  a  false  yet  current  tale, 

That  shall  be  bitterness  in  force  and  weight 
But  must  not,  shall  not,  slip  aside  your  mail, 

Or  give  suspicion  of  your  real  state, 
If  you're  not  cramped,  I  own  I  am  no  prophet, 
And  my  poor  pen  is  running  sadly  off  it. 

LXXV. 

How  spoke  the  dutchess  ?    With  a  bitter  sneer 
(More  feeling  than  she  yet  had  deigned  to  show) 

She  told  the  reason  why  she  had  drawn  near 
The  time  of  her  expected  visit,  so, 


JTwas  little  call,  she  said,  to  linger  there, 

Where  dissipation  had  such  ready  flow, 

Where  neither  decency  nor  common  pride 

Could  stay  a  moment  that  corrupted  tide. 

LXXVI. 

She  told  him  that  the  house  whose  hostess  deigned 

To  bend  herself  to  an  adventurer, 
Who  night  and  day  by  his  bedside  remained    [stir* 

And  scowled  and  frowned  at  the  least  common 
Who  took  no  pains  to  hide  how  much  he  reigned, 

Was  not  a  fitting  residence  for  her, 
She  would  not  risk  the  stain  of  longer  sleeping 
Beneath  a  roof  that  had  no  better  keeping. 

LXXVII. 
Dear  reader,  was  not  that  extremely  cool 

For  an  offended  woman  ?  very,  very  ! 
The  dutchess  played  her  trump  cards  to  the  full, 

As  if  a  doubtful  game  had  made  her  merry, 
Or  merry  mad ;  as  if  she  made  a  tool 

Of  artists  whose  tools  would  not  oft  miscarry ; 
In  fifteen  minutes,  if  I  judge  how  time  acts, 
The  lady's  impudence  had  reached  the  climax. 

LXXVIII. 

She  told  him  that  the  lady  Adeline's  shriek 
Gave  her  suspicion  first,  of  circumstances, 

She  thought  such  things  extremely  apt  to  speak 
In  other  things  beside  written  romances, 

So  she  had  watched  my  lady's  tell-tale  cheek, 
And  paid  a  small  attention  to  her  glances, 

And  she  had  seen  what  all  the  rest  had  seen, 

Sickness  quite  well  put  on,  and  very  green. 

LXXIX. 

She  told  him  that  the  heroine  and  hero 
Who  figured  so  conspicuously  at  present, 

In  certain  papers,  would  find  cooled  to  zero 

Friendship  that  might  have  been  less  evanescent, 

But  names  hawked  in  the  streets,  from  day  to  year — 

au- 
— daciously,  would  not  be  extremely  pleasant 

Announcements  for  a  lady's  drawing-room, 

And  such  would  find  her  always  not  at  home. 

LXXX. 

To  be  still  more  explicit,  she  was  sorry, 
But  must  beg  really  to  be  understood 

That  visiters  of  character  were  worry 

Enough,  to  do  her  health  or  pleasure  good, 

So,  to  be  brief,  as  she  was  in  a  hurry, 

She  would  reduce  her  friend's  list  if  she  could, 

And  henceforth — but  the  bell  hung  at  the  wall, 

And  she  spoke  as  the  lacquey  entered  hall — 

LXXXI. 

"  Never  at  home  to  Lord  Amundeville, 

The  lady  Adeline,  or  the  Russian  mission." 
She  swept  away,  and  as  she  left  him,  still 

Don  Juan  scarce  could  credit  his  position, 
But  gave  her  credit  for  a  giant  will, 

Unmatched  affrontery,  and  strong  decision, 
Smiled,  as  the  lacquey  bowed  him  to  the  door, 
And  as  he  whirled  home,  smiled  some  ten  times 
more. 

LXXXIL 
Don  Juan,  bearer  of  the  high  commands 

Of  the  most  mighty  empress  of  the  north, 
The  "  handsome  stranger"  from  a  dozen  lands, 

Noble  by  looks,  and 'not  less  so  by  birth, 
The  "  lion"  with  the  mark  yet  on  his  hands 

And  always  well  received  by  wealth  and  worth, 
Requested  not  to  mind  calling  again, 
In  language  most  unreasonably  plain  ! 


22 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LXXXIII. 

He  had  not  given  her  all  that  upbraiding, 
Yet  had  received  a  small  one  in  its  stead, 

He  felt  upbraidings  were  extremely  jading, x 
And  would  not  tell  well,  if  a  rival  read, 

But  owned  himself  the  lesson  he'd  been  reading, 
Made  him  still  more  finished  and  thorough-bred,  j 

By  showing  him  what  Spain  or  colder  Russia, 

Could  not,  or  otherwise  would  not,  produce  you. 

LXXXIV. 
Russia  !  ah  Russia  !  sent  him  on  a  mission, 

And  Spain,  oh  Spain  !  that  had  a  convent  in  it, 
Turkey,  that  boasted  of  a  black  physician, 

And  men  in  petticoats,  and  one  worse  tenet ; 
But  England,  had  a  variegated  dish  in, 

Whose  edge  he  had  stepped  on  within  a  minute, 
And  seen,  what  till  the  next  canto  I'll  keep, 
And  go,  as  Juan  did,  home  and  to  sleep. 


CANTO  IV. 
i. 

THERE  are  a  dozen  pleasant  things  in  life, 
But  of  them  all.  superlatively  pleasant, 

Is  the  small  talk,  and  the  tea-table  strife,       [sant ; 
That  makes  the  tea  hot  and  and  the  grin  inces- 

When  L.,  Shaw's  widow,  and  Ned  Barrow's  wife, 
Assemble  for  a  conclave  coalescent, 

To  hold  discussion,  over  tea  and  muffins, 

Concerning  babies,  wedding  cake,  and  coffins. 

II. 

How  the  bright  spoon  stirs  up  the  sugary  lumps, 
Just  at  the  bottom  of  the  "  dish  of  tea," 

And  how  the  tongue,  after  some  trial  thumps, 
Stirs  up  scandal's  unfathomable  sea ; 

What  graceless  hillocks  and  what  hilly  bumps 
They  prove  a  common  character  to  be,    [thrown, 

What   pleasant    shades    are   o'er   our    neighbors' 

How  very  pleasantly  they  shade  our  own. 

III. 

"  That  proud  Miss  T.  no  better  than  she  should  be," 
"That  graceless  scoundrel  H.,  that  tried  to  win 

herj" 

(Two  nods,  three  winks,)  "  the  Reverend  Mr.  T.," 

"  The  hypocrite,"  (a  groan,)  "  the  shameless  sin- 

"  The  great  teetotal  leader,  Doctor  V.,          [ner ;" 

Got  drunk  as  sin  at  the  great  temperance  dinner;" 

"  Oh  what  deceit,"  "  dear  me,"  "  the  Lord  preserve 

us,"  [us. 

"  You  don't  say  so,"  that's  just  the  way  they  serve 

IV. 

Who  would  not  be  immortalized  in  rhyme  ? 

Who  would  not  live  awhile  in  song  and  story  ? 
Who  would  not  be  dished  up  for  coming  time, 

In  hues  of  quite  unmentionable  glory? 
Who  would  not  have  a  foible  or  a  crime, 

Commented  on  by  bards  and  sages  hoary, 
Who  would  not  dine  on  lobsters  (spiced),  and  salad, 
And  have  the  dinner  spiced  up  in  a  ballad  ? 

V. 

Who  would  not  end  his  marriage  by  divorce  ? 
^Who  would  not  be  remarried  to  his  sister  ? 
Who  would  not  have  the  calm  celestial  course, 
Of  his  pure  blue,  sullied  with  muddy  bistre? 


Who  would  not  be  called  out  and  shot,  or  worse, 

Have  his  eyes  spoilt  by  some  six-foot  two-fister  ? 
Who  woijld  not  (in  report),  share  all  the  blessings, 
That  follow  scandal  and  her  outer  dressings  ? 

VI. 

Shades  of  departed  hero  and  romancer, 
The  days  of  chivalry  yet  linger  here, 

Instead  of  lyre  and  listening  lady,  answer 
As  well  the  liar  and  the  listening  ear ; 

Fame  is  a  bawd,  as  well  as  common  dancer, 
And  treads,  she  cares  not  how,  or  when,  or  where, 

And  the  romance  (that's  lying,  disenchanted), 

Has  lingered  something  longer  than  we  wanted. 

VII. 
And  table  talk  and  jabbering  women  rule 

The  scope  of  all  imaginative  lore, 
Till  many  who  are  neither  knave  nor  fool, 

Become  like  fools,  corrupted  to  the  core. 
Without  the  palliative  stock  of  wool, 

About  the  brains,  the  venial  guilt  to  lower; 
I  blush  for  womankind,  part  of  them,  only, 
Whose  outside  samples  are  not  scarce  or  lonely. 

VIII. 

And  lips  that  should  be  rife  with  song  and  prayer, 
Lips  that  should  never  breathe  aught,  save  affec- 

Throw  out,  how  often,  on  the  busy  air.  [lion, 

The  unknown  poison  of  the  tongue's  detraction  ; 

And  fair  sweet  girls  in  the  pollution  share, 
Who  have  not  shared  the  envy  or  the  action  ; 

Of  all  the  wrongs  with  which  the  true  are  battling, 
1  None  stings  so  deep  as  what  the  world  calls  tattling. 

IX. 

This  in  this  place,  that  would  not  have  been  here, 

But  for  the  prompting  outer  manners  gave  me, 
!  And  inability  to  bend  an  ear 

Of  total  deafness  to  the  fools  who  brave  me, 
j  With  table  talk  and  scandal ;  everywhere 

Where  people  will,  or  people  will  not,  have  me, 
|  Besides,  'tis  apropos,  just  in  this  place, 
:  When  we  have  listened  to  her  fibbing  grace. 
1 

X. 
I  I  mean  not  to  set  down  that  noble  lady 

Among  the  troop  of  poisoned  scandal-mongers, 
Who  have  a  lie,  without  occasion,  ready, 

To  feed  an  appetite  that  always  hungers ; 
i  My  lady  had  an  end,  at  least,  to  study 

To  save,  at  others'  cost,  her  ears  and  fingers ; 
How  well  she  did  so,  we  shall  see  anon, 
And  soonest,  in  her  case,  by  following  on. 

XI. 

And  briefly — her  career  upon  these  pages 
Has  run  itself  to  close — and  so  we  end  her ; 

The  natural  consequence  of  cooling  stages 
(The  very  cold  after  the  very  tender), 

Had  done  more  than  the  wisdom  of  past  ages, 
To  still  her  grace's  passions,  and  to  mend  her, 

And  those  few  random  days  at  Norman  Abbey, 

Saved  and  cleared  up  a  name  already  shabby. 

XII. 

She  had  gone  farther  into  dissipation, 

Or  more  imprudently  at  least,  than  ever, 
And  giving  way  to  such  a  heady  passion, 

For  every  random  arrow  from  love's  quiver, 
Opened  her  feelings  to  a  calculation 

Of  consequence/!  that  might  chance  to  sever 
;  Her  name  and  person  from  the  titled  rank, 
:  That  opened  to  her  ball  and  rout  and  bank  ! 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


23 


XIII. 
«  Who  has  drunk  wine  ?"  say  all ;  I  have,  for  one, 

And  afterward  drunk  bitterness  to  pay  it ; 
When  sober,  with  reflection  left  alone 

(Parenthese — 'tis  the  fashion  now  to  say  it), 
A  kind  of  flying  dance  throughout  has  run, 

With  all  the  devils  from  Hades  to  play  it ; 
The  misery  that  seemed  so  close  a  rubber 
Was,  that  I  grew  unreasonably  sober  ! 

XIV. 

The  dutchess  had  been  slightly  flushed  with  wine, 
That,  flowing  from  the  heart,  the  world  calls  love, 

And  when  reaction  left  her,  this  divine 

Liquid,  turned  over  by  an  awkward  shove, 

She  stored  more  precepts  up,  just  line  by  line, 
Than  we  might  make  a  second  Lacon  of; 

And  all  applied — the  part  most  strictly  useful — 

In  any  language  not  too  much  abuseful. 

XV. 

And  she  had  put  her  maxims  into  use, 
And  grown  extremely  moral  and  prudential, 

And  if  on  others  she  had  heaped  abuse 
In  her  defence,  I  think  'tis  not  essential — 

It  only  proves  that  robes  hung  very  loose 
May  be  drawn  tight  and  held  as  reverential ; 

For,  till  the  last,  she  kept  extremely  square 

By  the  old  duke,  his  gout,  and  easy-chair. 

XVI. 

But  we  have  others  who  demand  of  us 
The  duties  of  the  follower  and  leader: 

The  latter,  he  who  bores  you  to  discuss 

This  long  array — the  former,  the  bored  reader — 

In  a  concoction  of  condemned  rebus, 
Bad  rhyme  and  mawkish  sentiment,  a  feeder 

Of  all  things  to  all  men — milk,  pap,  and  gruel, 

Beefsteak  and  cutlets,  in  life's  stages  dual. 

XVII. 
A  morning  call  had  Juan's  breakfast  settled, 

And  left  Don  Juan  very  much  at  leisure, 
Sufficiently  ill-natured  and  high  mettled 

For  any  kind  of  dashing,  stirring  pleasure ; 
And  into  Blank-Blank  square  his  carriage  rattled, 

With  his  mind  just  resolving  in  a  measure 
That  things  might  go  as  easily  and  well, 
To  see  him,  off-hand,  settled  at  hotel. 

XVIII. 

His  lingering  at  Lord  Henry's  might  give  color 
To  circumstances  well  enough  reported, 

Believing  him,  as  all  did,  an  apt  scholar 

At  any  school  where  frolic-life  was  sported — 

Believing  that  he  would  not  wear  one's  collar, 
When  by  a  dozen  others  sought  and  courted  ; 

Unless  some  favors,  "  secret,  sweet,  and  precious," 

Gave  him  a  cause  for  lingering,  rather  specious. 

XIX. 

The  servant  said  his  lordship  was  within, 
And  in  his  library,  he  thought,  inditing 

Letters  and  speeches  (articles  akin) ; 

Certain  his  lordship  was  within,  and  writing; 

And,  as  his  habit  with  his  friends  had  been, 
Entered  the  library  without  inviting, 

And  saw,  with  a  knit  brow  and  sterner  cheek, 

The  very  man  with  whom  he  came  to  speak. 

XX. 

There  lay  a  heap  of  papers  on  the  table — 

Foolscap,  Bath,  post,  gilt-edge,  and  printed  sheet, ! 

In  such  confusion  as  if  London's  rabble 

Had  tossed  them  out  for  playthings  in  the  street ; 


And  struggling  to  the  top,  as  they  were  able, 

Lay  two  newspapers  he  had  chanced  to  meet, 
That  seemed  to  look,  although  they  bore  no  mark, 
Like  shots  at  Battersea,  an  hour  from  dark. 

XXI. 

And  sitting,  leaning  with  his  hand  on  one, 
Was  Henry,  Lord  Amundeville,  the  host 

Of  his  intrusive  visiter,  alone 

At  midnight — he  might  well  have  seemed  a  ghost 

(Save  for  broadcloth  and  boots,  that,  as  I've  known, 
Are  not  adopted  by  the  spirits  most)  : 

The  spirit's  paleness  had  beseemed  him  well. 

And  ne'er  face  hardened  more  by  spirit's  spell. 

XXII. 

That  face  (throw  out  the  eyes)  was  frozen  life, 
Not  stone,  nor  marble,  but  expression-chilled, 

As  if  strong  passions,  haughtily  at  strife, 

Had  been  crushed  moveless  as  their  master  willM, 

And  apathy,  with  its  destroying  knife, 

Had  been,  like  its  opponents,  thrown  and  killed  ; 

The  eyes  were  wild,  yet  stern  and  very  cold, 

Such  as,  we  feel,  have  bitter  thoughts  to  hold. 

XXIII. 
He  rose  as  Juan  stepped  two  paces  in,  [him, 

And  strode  across,  and  turned  and  stood  before 
As  some  one  says,  I  scarce  know  how  or  when, 

"  His  mother  had  not  known  him  though  she  bore 
It  was  so  plain  that  passion,  if  not  sin,        [him ;" 

Had  swept  a  wing  of  change  and  shadow  o'er  him, 
He  was  awake — to  the  heart's  strength  awake — 
And  sleep  had  broken,  as  the  jealous  break! 

XXIV. 

A  night  may  change  a  man  :  one  night  has  set 
Wrinkles  upon  my  brow  none  may  efface. 

Tush  !  it  was  folly — but  the  pillow  wet 

With  my  hot  tears  that  night,  has  been  my  grace, 

And  by  it  I  have  learned  that  some  I  met, 

Though  angels,  were  not  worth  exclusive  place 

In  a  heart  made  for  wearing  cheerfully 

The  mixed  affections  of  humanity. 

XXV. 

A  night  had  made  Amundeville  less  worldly, 
Less  parliamentary,  and  far  more  vital ;     [ed,  he 

Had  shown  him  that  although  he  dressed  and  whirl- 
Had  not  given  up  himself  to  love's  requital ; 

But  with  a  woman's  heart  half  round  him  curled,  he 
Had  left  that  woman's  heart  alone  to  fight  all 

That  fashionable  foppery  and  science 

Might  bring  to  bid  virtue  and  truth  defiance. 

XXVI. 

He  doubted  not  the  Lady  Adeline's  virtue, 
But  he  believed  her  heart  had  fled  from  him, 

Arid  though  Platonics  do  not  always  hurt  you, 
They  will  sometimes  make  reputation  dim  : 

And  such  he  thought  the  very  moral  dirt,  you 
Have  seen  thrown  on  her  in  the  poet's  whim — 

He  knew  the  tale  a  bitter  lie  in  part, 

But  questioned  whether  it  had  not  a  start ! 

XXVII. 

It  humbled  him  to  think  another's  face 

Could  call  up  warmer  feelings  than  his  own  ; 

It  humbled  him  to  think  he  could  not  trace 
A  symptom,  when  to  others  it  was  known  ; 

It  humbled  him  to  think  his  roof  a  place 

Where  wrong  emotions  should  be  earliest  grown  ;• 

It  humbled  him,  but  such  humility 

Is  pride — the  bitterest  we  shall  ever  see. 


24 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XXVIII. 
"  Love  in  distrust"  of  Lady  Adeline, 

And  scorn  for  Juan,  needed  but  a  spark 
To  set  in  action  that  terrific  mine, 

And  crush  his  household  idols  in  the  dark  ! 
One  sneer  from  Juan,  one  suspicious  sign 

From  his  fair  lady,  would  have  done  the  work, 
And  left  death-struggles  and  the  crimson  flood 
To  witness  of  a  tale  of  guilt  and  blood  ! 

XXIX. 

They  never  came  !     Two  moments,  as  they  stood 
Fronting  each  other,  sent  a  stream  of  thought, 

Rich  with  ideas  of  forgotten  good,  [brought 

Through   Juan's  mind  :  he  saw  how  they  had 

That  proud  patrician  to  a  dangerous  mood  ; 
To  right  again  the  wrong  he  had  not  wrought, 

He  deemed,  as  we  should  do  it,  meritorious, 

Generous,  and  philosophically  glorious. 

XXX. 

"  Charity  hides  a  multitude  of  sins," 
And  peccadilloes  also  :  one  good  act 

That  we  are  not  compelled  to  do,  begins 
A  credit  side  with  heaven,  to  connect 

Our  wavering  spirits  with  celestial  scenes 
That  claim  but  small  affinity,  in  fact ; 

How  much  Juan's  next  deed  deserves  of  praise, 

Will  be  correctly  judged  by  coming  days. 

XXXI. 

He  seldom  grew  so  very  much  in  earnest, 
And  so  shone  out  the  brighter  when  he  did — 

(So,  diamond !  in  the  mine  thou  ever  burnest 
The  brighter,  that  thou  art  for  ever  hid ; 

So,  Virtue  !  when  to  light  thou  once  returnest, 
A  hidden  gem,  thou  hast  such  prices  bid). 

I  think,  sincerely,  Juan  meant  as  well 

As  he  succeeded,  in  the  tale  I  tell. 

XXXII. 

And  neither  spoke  a  word  :  Juan  advanced 

In  silence  to  the  table,  and  took  up 
The  offensive  papers — just  a  moment  glanced 

To  see  the  lying  paragraphs  at  top — 
And  while  his  pulse  with  the  excitement  danced, 

Tore  off  a  hundred  notices  of  shop, 
Hotel,  and  villa,  leaving  just  the  column, 
In  each,  that  made  that  noble  lord  so  solemn — 

XXXIII. 
Drew  near  a  sheet,  took  up  a  pen  and  wrote  : — 

"  The  Lord  Amundeville  will  credit  me 
When  I  swear  by  the  arms  that  gild  my  coat, 

By  my  own  honor,  and  the  God  we  see, 
That  every  word  upon  these  lines  afloat 

Is  a  base,  false,  and  lying  calumny — 
That  not  a  word  of  love  has  ever  past, 
From  the  first  moment's  meeting  to  the  last, 

XXXIV. 

Between  the  Lady  Adeline  his  wife, 

And  me  his  guest."     He  signed  it  with  his  name, 
Took  up  the  sand-box  and  the  folding-knife, 

Sanded  and  cut  it,  made  it  just  the  same 
In  size  as  fitted  to  the  very  life 

The  paragraphs — again  refitted  them, 
Sealed  them  all  fast  in  one,  rose  from  the  stand, 
And  put  the  papers  in  Lord  Henry's  hand. 

XXXV. 

A  shadow  of  distrust — a  shadow  only — 
Flitted  across  his  face ;  his  brow  relaxed, 

The  confidence  so  generous  and  manly, 

That,  given  in  honor,  never  should  be  taxed, 


Went  to  his  soul  (hot  Wise  and  hotter  Stanley 

Might  learn  from  them  in  having  honor  waxed), 
!  And  the  hand  Juan  offered  to  his  clasp 
!  Was  seized  with  an  almost  convulsive  grasp. 


XXXVI. 

Poh  ! — explanations  are  extremely  dull 
To  all  except  the  parties  interested — 

Even  a  romance  sifted  to  the  full, 

With  its  hair-breadth  escapes  and  marvels  tested, 

Is  the  worst  part  of  reading — we  can  cull 

No  more  of  dangers  past  or  troubles  breasted  ; 

I  hate  to  close  a  volume,  and  I  hate 
j  To  keep  up  things  unreasonably  straight. 

XXXVII. 

So  Juan  just  explained,  and  bowed,  and  left  him 
A  happier,  oh  !  how  much  a  happier  man  ! 

Humbler,  as  man  should  be,  when  passions  sift  him, 
And  wiser  in  affection's  general  plan  : 

Twelve  hours  of  jealousy  had  only  reft  him 
Of  coldness  that  all  life  had  been  his  ban, 

Without  which  he  had  shared  less  state  employment, 

And  more  of  woman's  love  and  pure  enjoyment. 

XXXVIII. 

There — I  have  changed  him  !  I  have  long  ago 
Seen  that  a  change  is  possible  in  all — 

Seen  that  the  highest  spring  up  from  the  low — 
Seen  that  the  highest  to  the  low  may  fall — 

Seen  that  romantic  men  cold-hearted  grow. 
And  stern  men  own  the  sympathetic  thrall — 

That  high  and  low,  and  rich  and  poor,  change  places 

In  one  short  hour  and  in  a  thousand  cases. 

XXXIX. 

Poor  Praed  says,  "  Mill  was  used  to  blacken  eyes 
At  Harrow  Hill,  without  the  fear  of  sessions  ;" 

And  strait  "  Charles  Medler  loathed  false  quantities 
As  freely  as  he  hated  false  professions." 

"  But  Mill  sat  down,  unmerciful  and  wise, 
A  magistrate  to  punish  all  transgressions  ; 

And  Medler's  feet,  all  out  of  square,  and  antic, 

Lie  dovjrn,  two  hundred  yards  in  the  Atlantic." 

XL. 
I  had  a  tutor  once  (the  parallel) 

Who  showed  the  muses,  and  bade  me  embrace  : 
I've  followed  them,  "  not  wisely,  but  too  well," 

While  he  has  thrown  their  favors  in  their  face ; 
I  mind  me  that  I  often  used  to  tell 

He  held  all  womankind  in  steady  chase  : 
And  now  with  one  he  sits  right  well  contented, 
While  I  am  sorry  woman's  number's  stinted  ! 

XLI. 
I  used  to  chide  him  for  his  wrinkled  brow, 

And  he  retaliated  by  complaining 
That  I  laughed  always,  late  or  early.     Now 

There  are  few  smiles  upon  my  brow  remaining  : 
They  come,  but  seldom  linger ;  Wit's  below — 

Thanks  to  a  year  or  two  of  thorough  training — 
And  he  makes  merry,  not  with  mine  alone, 
But  all  the  world's  misfortunes,  and  his  own  ! 

XLII. 

I  preached  him  sermons,  just  to  mend  his  habits  : 
To  make  him  leave  his  club  and  his  seears — 

To  give  up  Sandy  Welsh's  and  Welsh  rabbits, 
And  drop  the  cards  he  us'd  at  P 's  and  R 's. 

The  epicure  makes  up  my  weekly  debits, 
My  best  Havana  sparkles  like  the  stars, 

And  my  kind  tutor  lectures  me  to  leave 

The  cards  he  cast  away  last  new-year's  eve  ! 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


25 


XLIII. 

That  night,  when  evening  closed  upon  the  city, 
That  night  when  evening's  dusky  hues  crept  o'er, 

When  dim  and  indistinct,  the  angle  jetty, 
The  figured  railing,  and  the  massive  door, 

Threw  dark  shades  on  a  picture  never  pretty, 
But  such  as  England's  heart  for  Dickens  wore, 

When  lamps  were  not  yet  lighted,  and  the  din 

Of  the  eternal  day  was  closing  in — 

XLIV. 

Within  a  very,  very  little  room, 

Scarce  dreamed  of,  in  that  tall  and  massive  pile, 
Where  an  intruding  foot  might  ne'er  presume 

To  enter,  with  the  prying  leer  and  smile, 
A  lady's  private  room,  till  day  of  doom 

Sacred  from  bustle,  business,  and  toil — 
Sat  Lady  Adeline,  I  scarce  know  where, 
But  think,  most  probably,  upon  a  chair, 

XLV. 
It  might  be  sofa,  or  a  curtained  couch, 

I  know  not  what  such  rooms  contain  in  common, 
Then  how  in  conscience'  name  can  I  avouch 

The  very  sanctum  that  a  titled  woman 
Kept  for  security  against  approach, 

And  made  the  only  home  about  a  home,  in  ? 
But  truth  she  sat  there,  with  her  two  white  hands 
Veiling  her  forehead  and  its  glittering  bands : 

XLVI. 

And  very,  very  wretched  ;  what  to  her 

Was  ihe  world's  whisper  ?  nothing  !  but  her  own  ? 

Had  she  not  played  the  heedless  worshipper 
Before  the  stranger,  at  the  stranger's  throne  ? 

Had  she  not  given  a  shadowy  thought,  to  mar 
The  pure  clear  whiteness  of  her  wedded  zone  ? 

It  is  my  firm  belief  that  she  had  not, 

And  that  her  love  for  Juan  bore  no  spot. 

XLVII. 

Had  she  loved  willingly  ?  Not  she,  not  she ! 

Had  she  loved  rashly  ?  scarce  a  doubt  of  it ! 
While  the  world  holds  its  sacred  mockery, 

And  at  one  flame,  has  but  one  taper  lit, 
While  the  full  bosom  is  constrained  to  be 

For  all  except  one  selfish  love  unfit — 
She  had  loved  rashly — yet  loved  with  a  flame 
That  fifty  years  would  never  blow  to  shame. 

XLVIII. 

And  she  accused,  defended  her  own  heart 
Before  the  free  tribunal  of  her  mind, 

Gave,  as  she  deemed,  its  most  deep-hidden  part 
To  the  investure,  keeping  naught  behind, 

Saw  nothing  that  could  cause  a  blush  to  start 
For  thought  or  speech,  unfaithful  or  unkind, 

Yet,  all  alone,  covered  a  queenlike  face 

As  if  she  hid  it  from  a  world's  disgrace. 

XLIX. 

One  thin?  she  knew,  that  could  her  own  broad  lands 
Ay,  every  foot,  roll  back  that  bitter  slander, 

Next  morn  would  see  them  in  u  strangers  hands  ; 
One  thin?  she  felt,  that  she  could  calmly  bend  her 

Beside  her  husband's  feet,  at  his  command 
A  year,  to  know  that,  whether  stern  or  tender, 

He  held  her  spotless,  as  a  husband  should 

A  wedded  wife  of  her  untarnished  blood. 


But  this  she  dared  not  dream  of,  cold  rebuke 
And  bitter  sneers,  and  taunting  finger-points, 

That  she  must  school  herself  to  bear  and  brook 
With  a  proud  silence  answering  to  his  taunts, 


Were  the  least  ills  she  hoped  for — and  the  look 

The  wretched  bear,  when  their  cold  tyrant  vaunts  : 
Was  half-prepared  to  meets  her  husband's  brow, 
That  little  needed  such  a  greeting  now. 

LI. 

'Twas  growing  darker  still,  and  still  she  sat 
Still  silent,  and  her  face  still  buried  so, 

Why  rung  she  not  for  lam'ps,  light,  and  all  that  ? 
Because  the  darkness  really  seemed  to  grow 

Like  a  dear  friend  around  her;  I  regret 

I  can  not,  for  the  darkness,  pause  and  throw 

Upon  this  page  an  attitude,  an  arm, 

A  forehead,  and  a  really  splendid  form. 

LII. 

A  step  without — ha  !   was  it  true  indeed 

That  Henry  Lord  Amundeville  could  not  wait 

Even  her  privacy,  but  came  to  feed 
His  taunting  appetite,  to  jibe  and  bait 

A  wedded  woman  at  her  sorest  need? 

Was  this  the  man  whom  other  men  called  great  ? 

And  in  the  lady's  bosom  rose  a  tide, 

A  bitter  current  of  contemptuous  pride. 

LIII. 
Opened,  the  door ;  it  was  too  dusk  to  see 

Aught  save  the  outline  of  the  coming  figure, 
But  well  she  knew  no  other  it  could  be 

Than  her  cold  heartless  husband  in  his  rigor, 
And  as  it  closed  again,  with  energy, 

Her  loosened  nerves  grew  back  to  life  and  vigor, 
And  she  sprang  up,  and  stood  with  folded  arms 
At  bay,  a  very  queen  in  her  alarms. 

LIV. 

Spirit  of  wonder !  did  she  hear  aright  ? 

He  spoke  her  name  in  tones  of  tenderness, 
Drew  her  toward  his  bosom  with  a  slight 

Yet  kindly  pressure,  that  most  rich  caress, 
And  pressed  his  lips  to  hers,  as  if  the  light 

From  her  dark  eyes,  could  look  upon  the  kiss — 
Tones,  tones  of  kindness,  his  arms  closed  above  her, 
And  the  changed  husband  was  a  second  lover. 

LV. 

I  have  bent  o'er  a  story  Willis  tells 

Of  crumbling  Venice,  and  her  gondolier, 

And  he  will  pardon  what  his  name  recalls, 
If  I  shall  weave  it  in  my  numbers  here — 

How  a  fair  girl  fled  from  her  father's  halls 
Across  the  Brenta,  with  a  filial  tear; 

The  fair  Francesca  by  a  stranger's  side, 

Giving  up  all  to  be  the  stranger's  bride. 

LVI. 

Time  passed,  Paletto's  bride,  Paletto's  form, 
W^ere  things  of  wonder  to  the  titled  crowd 

Who  knew  not  from  what  line  his  stalwart  arm, 
His  lavish  coffers  and  his  palace  flowed, 

They  only  knew  Paletto's  blood  was  warm, 
A^,  even  rash,  that  heedlessly  he  trode 

The  halls  of  men  who  knew  him  not,  yet  pressed 

The  strange  dark  noble  as  a  titled  guest. 

LVII. 
And  then  Francesca  waited,  and  he  came 

Late  home  one  night,  and  flushed  with  revel  wine, 
And  bade  her  quit  that  darkened  hall  for  shame, 

And  go  with  him,  and  see  the  white  moonshine 
Out  on  the  Adriatic,  where  the  flame 

Of  that  pure  orb,  lay  on  the  white  sea-line, 
And  took  her  in  a  fisher's  boat,  and  sung 
Rude  lays  of  love  in  a  wild  careless  tongue, 


26 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LVIII. 

And  told  her  he  was  born  a  fisherman. 
And  won  his  palace  by  a  single  throw; 

That  he  had  lost  that  stately  pile  again, 
And  was  again  a  boatman,  poor  and  luw, 

That  if  she  languished  for  the  titled  train 

And  scorned  his  birth,  there  yet  was  time  to  go ; 

And  then  she  left  him,  shared  a  titled  lot, 

But  kept  her  first  love  by  her,  unforgot. 

LIX. 

And  then  one  night  the  silver  rnoon  was  set 
High  up  in  heaven,  looking  from  her  door 

To  see  the  dark-eyed  woman,  tired  of  state, 
Who  came  back  to  the  fisherman  once  more, 

And  bade  him  fold  her  to  his  bosom  yet, 
And  take  her  as  into  her  heart's  red  core; 

The  moon  looked  still,  and  saw  their  vows  new- 

Paletto  and  his  lost  love  reunited.  [plighted, 

LX. 

'Tis  an  old  story,  and  a  touching  one. 

And  here  should  be  thought  over,  when  the  cold 
And  proud  Lord  Henry  from  his  pride  bent,  down, 

And  breathed  words  tenderer  than  those  of  old, 
Where,  in  that  room,  together  and  alone, 

Love  listened  well,  and  innocence  grew  bold, 
And  Adeline  felt  a  new  life  revealing, 
And  a  new  hope  in  a  past  union  sealing. 

LXL 

She  told  him  of  the  love,  the  only  love 

That  she  had  laid  upon  the  stranger's  shrine, 

The  sorrow  that  the  springing  heart  should  move — 
For  a  work  made  by  God  so  near  divine, 

But  warped  and  weaned,  the  serpent  from  the  dove, 
The  cross  of  passion  from  the  holy  sign  ; 

I  hope,  I  trust,  she  drew  the  line  aright 

And  gave  the  word,  as  fancy  drew  the  sight. 

LXII. 
He  spoke  of  Juan's  nobleness,  a  proof 

That  he  was  jealous  of  the  youth  no  longer, 
For  jealous  men  seldom  speak  in  behoof 

Of  those  they  deem  the  swifter  or  the  stronger, 
And,  serve  them  right !  what  spiritual  oaf 

Would  praise  the  man  who  filled  up  his  own  hun- 
His  pockets,  or  his  trunk,  at  his  expense?  [ger, 
None,  by  the  rood,  who  owned  a  spark  of  sense. 

LXIII. 
I  fancied  once  (no  matter  how  or  when), 

That  rivalry  in  woman  need  not  breed 
Dislike  between  the  rivals,  as  two  men — 

That  two  might  battle  fairly  for  the  meed, 
Each  of  the  other  speak  fair  words,  and  then 

Speak  better  of  himself,  the  best  at  need ;    [lets, 
While  I  popped  words,  my  kindly  friend  popped  bul- 
Each  wrapped  with  my  own  random  squibs  to  dull 
it's 

LXIV. 
Excessive  speed.     I've  written  kindly  letters, 

Swallowed  his  praises  like  Peruvian  bark, 
Worn  really,  though  one-sided,  friendship's  fetters, 

And  praised  him  back  again  (God  save  the  mark  !) 
And  he  has  spit  fire  like  fifteen  fire-eaters, 

And  sent,  one  letter  that  the  devil's  clerk 
Might  read  and  might  not,  for  to  my  own  reading, 
JTwas  as  ungenerous  as  the  author's  breeding. 

LXV. 

Man  grinds  his  heel  upon  the  head  of  him 
Who  stops  him  in  his  passion  or  his  path, 

Man  wrenches  from  its  parent  trunk,  the  limb 
That  happens  to  have  moved  his  jealous  wrath, 


But  man  has  never  found  aught  like  the  slime 

Of  the  lithe  serpent  creeping  in  the  math, 
The  serpent  tongue  to  do  his  froward  will, 
And  plant  a  heaven,  or  eke  out  a  hell. 

LXVI. 

Tush  !  I  grow  bitter ;  pause,  I  mind  me  well 
A  piece  of  good  advice  an  old  friend  gave  me, 

Always  to  pause  when  the  first  feelings  swell, 
And  never  let  the  first  rash  deeds  enslave  me; 

I  do  not  always  heed  what  old  friends  tell, 

But  when  I  do,  some  bitter  thoughts  they  save  me, 

I've  found  the  maxim  good  in  quick  inditing, 

I'll  mind  it  now,  and  stop  while  passion's  writing. 

LXVII. 
"  Stand  every  tub  on  its  own  proper  bottom," 

Shall  be  the  motto,  hence,  in  love  or  war, 
Who  struck  the  heaviest  buffets,  or  who  got  them, 

Matters  no  more  than  what  we  battle  for, 
Who  shall  out-general,  or  who  out-plot  them, 

Who  shall  conceal  the  best  the  hidden  scar, 
Who  shall  be  gayest  in  the  field  of  folly, 
Who  throw  most  stones  at  doting  melancholy  ! 

LXVIH. 

Suffice  it,  Juan's  baggage  still  remained 

At  Blank  Blank  square,  and  still  he  was  their 

Agreeably  and  nobly  entertained  [guest, 

In  letters  and  in  food,  on  England's  best, 

Until  he  found  one  morning  he  had  planned 
To  take  a  trip  to  Cumberland,  in  quest 

Of  just  what  London  wanted,  one  fair  face 

To  make  it  an  intensely  pleasant  place. 

LXIX. 

For  some  slight  reason,  like  all  reasons  hidden, 
For  lack  of  something  else  to  think  about, 

Aurora's  image  had  come  up  unbidden 

Some  fourteen  times  a  day,  and  put  to  rout 

The  charms  of  two  blue-stockings  and  a  red  one, 
Who  fished  him  as  we  fish  reluctant  trout, 

And  shut  out  from  his  view  two  opera-dancers, 

Whose  plain  love-tokens  really  needed  answers. 

LXX. 

Were  I  a  tourist,  I  should  take  occasion 
To  speak  a  while  of  Lake  Winandemere, 

And  stop  some  half  a  canto  to  emblazon 
The  autumn  scenery  round  Wictonshere, 

Speak,  as  the  poets  speak,  about  the  ways  in 
Which  fine  old  Cumberland  meets  falling  year, 

But  as  I'm  not,  excuse  me,  at  the  present, 

Touring-"s  loo  much  bored  out  to  be  right  pleasant. 

LXXI. 

A  scene  in  England  might  do,  but  a  sketch 
Drawn  from  reality,  must  come  fourth-handed, 

For  verily  there's  not  a  hedge  or  ditch 

But   bears  the    mark  where   some  mad  tourist 

And  any  noddy,  with  the  tact  to  stretch,     [landed, 
Commands  the  readers   talent  once  commanded, 

The  world's  gone  wild  on  travels,  and  of  course 

We  all  assist  the  new-found  hobby-horse. 

LXXII. 

A  well-filled  book,  drawn  by  a  man  of  mind 
From  such  material  as  he  seeks  alone, 

The  world  of  letters  should  be  glad  to  find, 
And  men  of  genius  should  be  glad  to  own; 

We've  no  objection  for  a  while  to  wind 
Among  fallen  column  or  deserted  stone 

With  Stephens  and  with  Gliddon,  and  a  few 

Who  have  been  witty,  vigorous,  or  new. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


27 


LXXIII. 

But  to  be  bored  by  the  confounded  squad 
Of  brainless  coxcombs,  who  in  six  weeks'  travel 

Skip  over  all  creation — fly  like  mad, 

East,  west,  north,  south,  by  mountain  or  by  level, 

Three  days  from  Paris  to  Jellalabad, 

Three  weeks  from  Mount  Parnassus  to  the  devil — 

Spare  us,  kind  Heaven !  we  can't  spare  ourselves, 

For  books  of  some  kind  must  fill  up  our  shelves  ! 

LXX1V. 

A  dunce  at  home  will  be  a  dunce  abroad; 

Just  so  a  blockhead  or  an  egotist : 
The  man  who  can  not  find  the  common  road 

Of  every-day  life  with  reflection  blest, 
Will  stand  on  Marathon  a  senseless  clod, 

And  Petra's  silence  shall  not  thrill  his  breast; 
And  though  the  past  to  him  makes  dulness  bright, 
Think  as  he  will,  we  beg  him  not  to  write ! 

LXXV. 
I've  written  these  last  stanzas  with  a  view 

Of  sending  the  young  Don  to  Cumberland — 
But  happening  to  turn  a  page  or  two 

Back,  on  some  hasty  notes  that  I  had  penned, 
I  find  that  history  will  not  bear  me  through 

In  this  excursion  that  my  fancy  planned, 
And  that  Don  Juan's  stay  in  England  grew 
Brief  as  the  hasty  notes  I  hurried  through. 

LXXVI. 

A  feather  turns  the  scale  of  destiny, 

And  a  caprice  makes  happiness  or  mars  it; 

When  we  have  planned  a  purpose  eagerly,     ' 
A  little  change  in  time  or  nature  bars  it ; 

And  could  we  trace  the  consequences,  we 

Might  give  by  trifles  even  beyond  the  stars  :  it 

Might  make  us  tremble  at  the  smallest  action, 

And  shudder  at  the  slightest  recollection  ! 

LXXVH. 

Had  such  a  thing  been  done,  then  such  a  thing 
Had  followed,  as  a  natural  consequence ! 

And  it  would  take  ten  years  of  life  to  sing 
A  tithe  of  what  is  far  beyond  pretence 

Of  how  much  change  in  life  of  priest  or  king, 
Bard,  poet,  statesman,  mendicant,  or  prince, 

One  little  point  had  made,  possessing  weight 

Enough  almost  to  turn  the  scale  of  fate. 

LXXVIII. 

A  blow  well  struck  has  turned  a  battle's  tide, 
A  hasty  word  has  set  a  land  in  flame, 

A.  falling  horse  has  crushed  a  nation's  pride, 
A  broken  girth  revealed  a  monarch's  shame ; 

A  spark  has  spread  red  ruin  far  and  wide, 

And  e'en  in  Moscow  sealed  Napoleon's  claim ; 

A  hasty  word  has  given  a  maiden's  breast 

To  an  eternal  and  an  aching  guest. 

LXXIX. 

And  so,  reverse  it — how,  for  good  or  ill, 
The  witchery  of  Juan's  winning  art 

Among  old  Cumberland's  lake,  vale,  and  hill, 
Had  played  within  Aurora  Raby's  heart 

When  once  they  met  again,  must  slumber  still, 
Till  buried  knowledge  into  life  shall  start : 

They  never  met — at  least  so  says  the  record, 

Although  'tis  possible,  as  life  is  chequered. 

LXXX. 

What  broke  the  Don's  arrangement  ?    Just  an  order 
From  the  most  high  and  mighty  Catherine 

To  the  Don  Juan,  her  puissant  warder, 
To  give  up  to  the  trustiest  of  men — 


The  count  of  Strogkanoff,  a  good  old  sworder — 
What  private  papers  might  be  with  him  then, 
And  to  repair  to  her  imperial  court  once, 
On  business  of  most  wonderful  importance  ! 

LXXXI. 

There  was  a  hint  about  a  post  of  honor 
Still  greater  than  the  one  he  occupied  : 

The  services  the  noble  Don  had  done  her, 
So  great,  that  nothing  could  be  well  denied  ! 

And  then  the  count,  a  second  Eath  O'Connor, 
Bowed  in  his  ministerial  power  and  pride, 

And  hoped  the  noble  Don  would  think  it  best 

To  heed  the  most  imperial  behest. 

LXXXII. 

Don  Juan  took  the  liberty  to  ask 
If  her  imperial  majesty  was  pleased 

With  the  fulfilment  of  his  present  task  : 

And  here  the  count  of  Strogkanoff  just  gazed 

A  moment  (he  had  only  dropped  his  mask), 
And  smiled  to  see  the  Don's  suspicion  eased, 

And  then  assured  him  the  said  royal  woman 

Thought  his  diplomacy  much  more  than  common. 

LXXXIII. 

It  may  be  that  our  times  are  more  suspicious 
Than  Catherine's  were,  but  this  much  is  most  cer- 

Displaced  ambassadors  are  quite  officious        [tain, 
To  see  the  motive  that's  behind  the  curtain; 

And  their  grimace  at  losing  all  those  fishes 
Grow,  to  the  lookers-on,  very  diverting; 

'Tis  their  belief,  although  new  favors  fetter  him, 

When  they  remove  a  man,  they  never  better  him. 

LXXXIV. 

A  man  with  more  suspicion  or  less  bravery 

Than  Juan  owned,  would   have,  no  doubt,  sus- 

Some  specimen  of  her  imperial  knavery —    [pected 
The  knout,  Siberia,  or  some  place  connected, 

Especially,  like  Juan,  if  her  favor  he 

Amid  his  love-scenes  had  almost  neglected : 

But  Juan,  faith !  I  think,  suspected  not, 

Or  if  he  did  suspect,  despised  the  plot. 

LXXXV. 

What  ho  !  for  Russia  once  again  ! — To  leave, 
Crossed  Juan  merely  that  it  stopped  a  liason 

Or  something  that  might  be  one,  on  the  eve 
Of  an  attempt  upon  Aurora's  freezing ; 

And  our  sweet  Leila  had  no  heart  to  grieve — 
And  as  she  left  no  tears,  saw  little  reason. 

One,  and  only  one,  took  the  parting  dearly, 

And  Lady  Pinchback  felt  the  loss  severely. 

LXXXVI. 

Leila  she  loved,  just  as  she  would  have  loved 

A  piece  of  statuary  that  she  saw 
Would  leave  a  vacant  corner  if  removed, 

And  if  left  still,  continue  her  eclat ; 
My  lady  knew  how  soon  she  would  have  proved 

A  magnet  London's  fame  and  wealth  to  draw: 
My  lady,  with  a  pure  regard  for  self, 
Was  puzzled  how  to  fill  her  vacant  shelf. 

LXXXVII. 

Commend  me  to  the  selfish  ;  let  them  make 
A  world  of  talk  about  self-sacrificing  : 

The  quantity  of  pains  the  selfish  take 
To  be  "  extremely  sorry,"  is  surprising  ! 

For  interest  you  will  find  two  hearts  that  break, 
While  one  breaks  for  pure  sorrow  in  its  rising ; 

The  truth,  indeed,  may  make  a  pretty  strife, 

But  mockery  acts  "  more  natural  than  life  !'} 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LXXXVIII. 

Pure-hearted  Leila  !  she  began  to  think 

That  sham  was  really  earnest,  but  the  choice 

That  Juan  gave  her,  of  his  cup  to  drink 
Or  learn  in  siddy  London  to  rejoice, 

Was  eloquently  answered,  by  the  link 
Of  her  fair  arm  in  his,  and  by  the  voice 

That  told  him  of  the  young  heart's  gratitude, 

And  the  small  tear  that  trembled  where  it  stood. 

LXXXIX. 

A  short  farewell  to  Lord  Amundeville — 
A  wish  of  kindness  for  his  happy  wife  ! 

If  the  dim  future  had  a  store  of  ill 
For  them,  it  has  escaped  my  searching  knife. 

With  all  of  England  I  have  wrought  my  will, 
And  leave  it — then,  as  now,  for  ever  rife 

With  good  and  evil,  mixed  so  long  and  well, 

That  which  predominates  no  one  can  tell ! 

XC. 

What  ho  !  for  Russia  once  again  ! — The  two 
Stood  on  the  deck  and  swept  from  England's  coast ; 

But  deem  not  with  her  hills  and  headlands  blue 
Our  watch  upon  their  coming  life  is  lost : 

Years  may  make  life  and  tale  together  new, 
Before  I  claim  again  my  pleasant  post ; 

But  I  have  hoped  that  he  whom  I  attend, 

Will  own  my  moral  maxims  to  the  end. 


CANTO  V. 
I. 

OUT  of  an  occupation — poor  Othello  ! 

I  do  not  wonder  he  was  growing  tired  ; 
Though  his  complexion  might  be  rather  yellow, 

And  by  his  jealous  thoughts  too  quickly  fired, 
His  one  remark  proves  him  a  clever  fellow, 

That  any  one  of  us  might  have  admired  ; 
He  knew  our  nature  so  extremely  well, 
And  grew  so  very  tired  of  sitting  still. 

II. 

Othello's  occupation's  gone — so's  mine, 
Or  rather  was,  for  I've  begun  again  ; 

I've  grown  so  used  to  tracing  line  by  line 
The  cogitations  of  my  quibbling  brain, 

That  thoush  I  promised  something  very  fine 
And  new  when  I  should  recommence  the  strain, 

I  find  myself,  within  a  month,  beginning 

Anew  my  old  career  of  rhyme  and  sinning. 

III. 
,    I  had  a  friend  who  quit  tobacco-chewing 

For  several  reasons — one,  outrageous  breath, 
That  gave  unpleasant  savor  to  his  wooing, 

Besides  expectorating  half  to  death  ! 

And  as  a  marriage-settlement  was  brewing, 

He  took  a  lease  beforehand  on  the  faith, 

And  clipped  his  quid ;  but,  fiery  as  a  rocket, 

He  carried  "  Mrs.  Miller's"  in  his  pocket — 

IV. 
To  show  his  resolution  :  let  me  beg 

That  you  will  never  undertake  bravado  ! 
I  never  knew  a  man,  fast  in  the  leg, 

That  is,  who  wouldn't  fight  you  unless  made  to — 


But  he  would  swear  he  wouldn't  move  a  peg 

For  all  creation,  even  if  he  had  to  ! 
Cowards  will  bluster :  no  one  need  to  break  spear 
On  such  an  issue — for  your  proof  take  Shakspere. 

V. 

And  courage,  much  exposed,  evaporates 
In  something  much  like  anger  at  ill  use ; 

'Tis  like  good-nature,  for  the  thirteen  states 
Don't  let  your  freedom  run  into  abuse ; 

Or  ten  to  one,  before  your  wrath  abates, 
The  screw  of  resolution  will  be  loose — 

And  wit  and  valor,  as  you  know  each  tends, 

Oozing,  like  Falstaff 's,  at  your  finger-ends  ! 

VI. 

I  meant  to  show  temptation  as  it  is 

By  mentioning  that  my  aforesaid  friend, 

Finding  his  stimulus  so  much  amiss, 

And  having  such  a  cure  so  near  at  hand, 

Mechanically  (oh,  forbidden  bliss  !) 

Grasped  the  forbidden  weed,  and  in  the  end 

Found  himself  (in  the  loafer's  parlance)  going  it, 

And  used  up  half  a  paper  without  knowing  it  i 

VII. 
I  do  not  chew  tobacco,  but  I  chew 

The  cud  of  my  own  fancies,  sweet  and  bitter; 
The  habit  that  in  olden  moments  grew 

Of  making  every  thought  turn  to  a  letter, 
Has  tempted  me,  half  willing,  to  renew 

My  disposition  passing  time  to  fetter — 
With  fragile  links  formed  out  of  foolscap  paper, 
And  welded  here  beside  the  midnight  taper. 

VIII. 

The  yearning  fever  that  allures  us  back 

To  our  old  habits,  thoughts,  and  dispositions, 

Has  been  commented  on  in  white  and  black 
By  starving  poets  of  all  thin  conditions  ; 

And  as  I  follow  in  their  general  track 

Of  poor  concealments  and  as  poor  admissions, 

I  will  confess  the  text  from  which  I'm  preaching 

Is  drawn,  in  thankfulness,  from  others'  teaching. 

IX. 

Sweet  L.  E.  L.  has  shown  the  love  she  bore 

Her  labor,  in  the  Golden  Violet, 
And  Doctor  Lever  smoothed  Jack  Hinton  o'er 

With  something  fine,  on  finishing  regret ; 
The  more  'tis  used,  the  newer — so  the  score 

Shall  have  my  maxim,  newly  vamped  and  set — 
When  feeling  much,  as  author  or  as  reader, 
We  grow  to  like  a  heroine,  and  need  her. 

X. 

I  do  not  envy  either  of  the  two 

Who  does  not  feel  an  interest  in  the  work  ; 
He  may  peruse  or  write  it,  it  is  true, 

But  either  case  betrays  the  merchant's  clerk — 
Extremely  calculating,  cold,  and  blue  ; 

And  just  as  soon  I'd  see  the  sheriff  lurk 
About  my  person,  haunting  me  for  crimes, 
As  these  insensibles  about  my  rhymes. 

XI. 

The  author  beats  the  reader  one  degree — 
The  reader  always  thinks  the  author  lies; 

But  trust  me,  that  same  author,  though  he  see 
At  first  with  others'  calculating  eyes, 

Begins  at  last  to  find  reality 

In  every  phantom  that  he  bids  arise. 

Juan,  with  me,  though  an  adopted  child, 

Is  dear,  and  I  should  hate  to  have  him  spoiled  ! 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


29 


XII. 

Nothing  from  nothing. — Providence  receives 
The  meed  of  adoration  for  his  power 

Of  joining  past  and  present  by  the  eves, 
And  forming  from  blank  space  the  present  hour ; 

The  poet's  clan,  by  me,  their  spokesman,  grieves 
That  no  one  chooses  to  commemorate  our 

Talent  of  dishing  up  the  rarest  victuals 

From  pots  with  nothing  in,  and  empty  kettles. 

XIII. 

Not  that  our  brains  are  naturally  empty, 
But  used  up  by  long  labor  ill-rewarded, 

With  burning  brows  beneath  long  hair  unkempt,  ay, 
Our  very  warnings  ever  disregarded, 

N"o  wonder  that  we  leave  our  dreams  undreampt,  ay, 
And  find  ourselves  by  sober  sense  retarded, 

No  wonder  that  we  grow  the  world's  buffoons, 

And  ape  old  rhymes,  on  purpose  for  baboons. 

XIV. 

!n  self-defence,  we  are  compelled  to  take 
This  stanza,  or  some  other  quite  as  poor, 

And  kick  the  world  of  folly,  twice  a-week 
Handsomely  through  their  own  infernal  door; 

The  toes  and  boot-material  we  break, 
Are  charged  as  usual,  to  the  loser's  score, 

And  if  we  show  up  their  forbidden  evils, 

We  are  consoled  by  being  called  "  poor  devils." 

XV. 

The  poet's  rhymes  are  foolish,  that  I  grant, 

But  do  not  blame  the  hungry  elf  who  writes  : 
Stubborn  necessity  and  pinching  want 
May  but  inspire  the  nonsense  he  indites, 

And  as  they  meet  his  glorious  thoughts  with  cant, 
And  call  his  beautiful  creations  frights, 

le  does  not  trouble  them  with  these  commodities, 

But  in  their  place  flings  out  but  vulgar  oddities. 

XVI. 

This  is  the  second  time  I  have  begun 
To  make  excuses  for  this  half  and  half 

Style  of  composing  that  is  neither  one 
Nor  yet  the  other,  far  too  sad  to  laugh, 

Too  flighty  for  an  intellectual  tone, 
A  kind  of  melodramatic  giraffe, 

Half  camel  and  half  leopard,  marked  and  chequered, 

And  serving  all  creation  for  a  record. 

XVII. 

Faugh  !  I  have  crown  too  flippant,  I  shall  finish 
The  catalogue  of  what  these  pages  hold — 

When  this  eternal  headache  shall  diminish, 
(Last  night,  dear  reader,  I  had  taken  cold, 

At  present,  I  am  feverish  and  spleenish, 

And  feel  as  if  one  night  had  made  me  old) — 

There  is  another  cause  why  I  resume 

This  written  record  of  sunshine  and  gloom. 

XVIII. 

is  not  all  that  I  have  grown  to  love 

The  labor  I  have  chosen  for  my  text ; 
i)ur  dearest  friends,  half  careless  as  we  prove, 

Will  find  us  with  our  spirits  soured  and  vexed, 
The  languid  pulse,  little  disposed  to  move 

From  one  half  stanza  to  begin  the  next, 
Yet  feeling,  with  a  feeling  most  acute, 
We  have  no  right  to  scat  us  and  be  mnte. 

XIX. 

[t  matters  not  if  we  have  made  the  choice, 
Or  Providence  has  set  us  to  our  fate, 

Within  us  there  is  an  eternal  voice 
That  calls  us  to  be  evil,  good,  or  great, 


And  we  spring  up  unto  our  stormy  joys 

With  brow  unbended  and  with  look  elate, 
When  there  is  little  pleasant  thought  within  us, 
From  our  own  idle  luxury  to  win  us. 

XX. 

We  know  that  we  are  burdened  with  a  trust 
That,  either  good  or  ill,  must  be  fulfilled, 

That  we  are  wrong  to  lay  us  in  the  dust, 
Not  having  done  as  the  great  Master  willed ; 

And  that  though  burning  teardrops  from  the  rust 
Of  our  corroding  spirits  be  distilled, 

Without  demanding  how  or  asking  why, 

We  must  spin  out  our  spider-thread,  and  die. 

XXI. 

And  this  is  fatalism — well,  no  matter, 

I  will  not  stop  to  read  the  lesson  through, 

The  dissertation  would  be  little  better 
Than  stale  philosophy  to  you,  and  you, 

And  I  should  trace  a  theory  to  the  letter, 
That  no  man  fully  ever  dreamed  or  knew, 

I  only  know,  that  useless,  if  you  will, 

It  is  my  fate  to  scribble  nonsense  still. 

XXII. 

It  is  my  fate  to  pour  unto  the  crowd 

The  hidden  heaviness  of  my  own  words, 

Stilled  by  rebukings  if  they  are  not  loud, 
And  mingled  ever  with  my  spirit  chords, 

The  veil  of  silence  seems  to  me  a  shroud, 
And  'tis  the  only  prospect  time  affords 

Of  being  heard  beyond  my  weary  cell — 

To  pour  my  language  freely,  if  net  well. 

XXIII. 

And  if  I  speak,  who  will  bend  down  to  listen  ? 

Answer,  Kirk  White  !  with  that  despairing  moan 
That  makes  our  eyes  so  with  our  teardrops  glisten, 

When  o'er  us  creeps  the  cold  chill  "  all  alone ;" 
Answer,  and  tell  us  that  our  death-hours  hasten 

Silent,  and  unremembered,  and  unknown, 
That  we  shall  die,  not  one  sad  vestige  leaving, 
And  London's  busy  world  our  dust  receiving; 

XXIV. 

Answer,  and  I  will  struggle  to  refute 

This  plaintive  fear,  and  say  that  thus  to  sink 

With  weak  and  puling  cry,  stilled,  if  not  mute, 
Before  the  flesh  forsakes  us,  is  to  shrink 

And  leave  the  slaves,  unchidden,  to  pollute 

The  fountain  where  a  thirsting  world  might  drink, 

To  die  before  our  time,  die  when  we  live, 

And  do  our  calling  wrong,  we  ne'er  forgive. 

XXV. 

I  have  no  bar  to  silence  me,  but  death, 
I  fear  no  other  sceptre,  let  me  wield 

This  pointed  truncheon,  till  a  wintry  wreath 
Decks  my  thinned  brows  upon  an  aged  field, 

And  I  will  leave  the  barking  curs  beneath, 
To  lap  the  heart-drops  calmer  spirits  yield ! 

Naught  but  an  eagle  plunges  to  my  feast ! 

(A  buzzard,  courteous  reader,  at  the  least.) 

XXVI. 

The  world  will  live,  I  think,  and  I  will  not ; 

I  look  at  fatalism,  and  feel  merry, 
I  think  the  stars  have  told  me  my  own  lot — 

To  die  with  unthinned  locks,  and  early,  very ; 
Not  caring,  just  now,  for  my  burial-spot, 

And  having  supped  last  night  on  lips  of  cherry, 
I  merely  state  a  moderate  opinion. 
That  death  o'er  me  claims  early  his  dominion. 


30 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XXVII. 

Although  sometimes  I  feel  inclined  to  grumble 

At  this  too  well-authenticated  fact, 
That  is  when  sadness  makes  me  low  and  humble, 

And  my  heart-strings  are  loosened,  if  not  cracked, 
When  feeling  well,  I  look  upon  the  tumble 

As  a  quick  end  to  an  unpleasant  act ; 
The  end  perhaps  some  ten  times  as  unpleasant, 
For  all  that  I  can  see  of  it  at  present. 

XXVIII. 
But  when  I  die,  my  day  of  work  is  over, 

And  this  congenial  task,  besides  my  "  journal 
Of  gay  Fred  I'iniicstcr,  tin-  general  lover, 

Kept  in  his  own  hand-writing,  and  diurnal," 
Must  be  completed,  I  must  not  be  slow,  for 

Digressions  in  these  places  are  eternal, 
And  I  must  let  my  rhyming  vein  run  freely 
To  catch  Don  Juan  and  the  fair  young  Leila. 

XXIX. 

Catherine  of  Russia  should  have  been  a  man, 
But  as  she  was  not,  'twas  the  world's  look  out, 

I  more  than  half  think  nature  lost  her  plan, 
And  formed  her  in  uncertainty  and  doubt — 

We  wonder,  with  the  best  success  we  can, 
What  the  sage  empress  thought  herself  about, 

And  wonder  more,  that  some  fine  winter  morning 

She  did  not  lose  her  throne,  by  way  of  warning ! 

XXX. 

The  great  she-lions  of  the  ancient  time 
Were  upheld  in  their  course  by  chivalry, 

Born  among  men  who  stickled  at  no  crime, 
So  that  the  court  of  beauty  held  them  free — 

Who  looked  on  government  as  one  great  mime, 
Whose  naked  truth  they  had  a  right  to  see; 

And  law  and  order  as  a  kind  of  trust 

Quite  secondary  to  a  courtier's  lust. 

XXXI. 

This  is  a  bitter  truth,  but  who  shall  dare 

To  contradict  me  ?  what  had  woman's  power 
To  answer  to  a  ravaged  nation's  prayer 

In  any  bygone  Cleopatra's  hour  ? 
Merely  that  men  had  fixed  the  standard  there ; 

A  queen's  name,  like  a  king's,  is  not  a  tower, 
And  weak  and  vacillating,  they  yet  laid  them 
Trusts,  that  in  half  the  group  have  not  betrayed 
them. 

XXXII. 
Against  the  beautiful  decree  of  God — 

Throned  females  have  been  cruel  and  obscene, 
Almost  invariably ;  the  mighty  rod 

Of  throned  dominion — seemed  to  break  the  screen 
Of  female  delicacy  at  a  nod, 

And  cruel  or  unchaste  as  they  have  been, 
What,  save  man's  chivalry,  has  held  the  wand 
So  sacredly  within  her  wavering  hand  ? 

XXXIII. 

I  meant  to  say,  that,  owning  all  this  true, 

And  that  men  would  be  fooled  by  sovereigns' 

I,  like  the  world  around  me  never  knew     [beauty, 
How  the  czarina  claimed  her  subjects'  duty, 

If  any  man  does,  let  him  write  a  new 

And  clearer  history ;  I  will  share  his  booty ; 

Always  provided  he  will  "  try  to  try" 

Not  to  make  history  so  confounded  dry. 

XXXIV. 

And  let  him  tell  me,  how  without  a  claim 

To  female  delicacy,  female  pride, 
Or  female  beauty — she  could  aptly  tame 

A  nation  so  to  northern  bears  allied 


As  unromantic  Russia,  where  the  same 

Iced  nature  rules  the  heart's  blood  and  the  tide, 
Where  the  dog-star  has  never  flashed  his  evil  ray, 
And  no  one  ever  dreamed  of  finding  chivalry. 

XXXV. 

Juan  had  been  a  plaything;  so  had  been 
A  hundred  older  if  not  wiser  heads, 

And  that  malicious  devil  that  was  seen 

In  the  great  aggregate  of  Catherine's  deeds — 

Gave  her  the  disposition  to  retain 

Her  cast-off  favorites,  in  her  power,  at  needs, 

But  letting  them  play  off,  after  the  manner 

Of  pussy  with  a  mouse,  if  you  will  scan  her. 

XXXVI. 

Juan  had  been  a  favorite,  and  she 

Had  just  discovered  an  important  fact, 

That  giving  favorites  too  much  liberty 

Was  not  the  way  to  teach  them  how  to  act; 

The  knout,  the  dungeon,  and  Siberia, 

Made  up  what  other  thoughts  the  empress  lacked, 

The  iron  rod  of  power,  was  assumed, 

And  Juan,  lest  he  should  do  mischief,  doomed. 

XXXVII. 

I  have  admired  the  good  old  woman's  way   . 

Of  flogging  her  six  children  every  morn, 
To  keep  them  out  of  mischief  for  the  day ;      [turn, 

She  owned  that  they  did  scream,  and  twist,  and 
While  her  maternal  switch  was  kept  in  play, 

But  stiller  children  never  had  been  born 
Than  hers — till  the  next  morning's  flogging-time, 
When  they  were  warned,  as  usual  against  crime. 

XXXVIII. 

"  An  ounce  of  good  prevention's  worth  a  pound 
Of  cure,"  I  think  the  ancient  proverb  runs, 

Our  aged  friend  had  heard  it  in  its  round, 
And  practised  it  on  her  obedient  sons ; 

She  used  a  switch,  the  world  of  higher  sound 
Use  chains  and  bars  and  gibbets,  swords  and  guns, 

To  do  the  same  good  thing,  keep  innocence  still, 

For  fear  it  should  unhappily  do  ill. 

XXXIX. 

Young  men  are  boasters,  most  especially 
Of  beauty's  favors ;  Juan  might  be  so ; 

Beard  brings  discretion  most  outrageously, 
Always  provided  it  has  time  to  grow — 

And  your  incipient  man  in  gallantry 
Is  not  the  one  you'd  tell  all  secrets  to; 

A  little  age,  a  little  reputation, 

Makes  safer  confidants  in  deep  flirtation. 

XL. 

Acting  upon  this  principle,  just  now 
Her  majesty  had  made  a  change  of  lovers; 

All  the  particulars  when,  why,  and  how, 
The  tenth  past  canto  of  the  Don  discovers, 

Juan's  successor  made  his  opening  bow 
With  grace,  before  the  revolution  movers, 

And  having  done  so  to  his  satisfaction, 

Sunk  back  into  his  usual  inaction. 

XLI. 

And  Catherine,  having  nothing  much  to  do, 
And  being  cooled  by  one  cool  paramour, 

Began  to  take  a  quite  extended  view 

Of  things  she  had  not  thought  about  before, 

Found  some  defaulters,  and  a  very  few 
Of  honest  men,  handling  the  public  store, 

Punished  the  guilty  heavily,  of  course, 
j  And  made  the  innocent  fare  rather  worse. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


31 


XLII. 

Fixed  off  some  frozen-footed  serfs  with  shoes, 
(In  a  snow  country,  what  a  pleasant  tact,  hers  !) 

Raked  up  the  post-roads,  and  began  to  use 
The  confiscated  funds  of  some  contractors, 

Long-bearded,  sharp-nosed,  avaricious  Jews, 
Having  first  hung  them  as  state  malefactors, 

Upon  the  principle  of  "  pot  and  kettle," 

Great  rogues  always  abominating  little  ! — 

XLIII. 
Grew  moral,  and  Siberia'd  the  wight, 

If  poor,  who  happened  to  have  stolen  a  kiss, 
Put  gold  in  the  other  balance,  and  found  light, 

What  starred  nobility  had  done  amiss  ; 
In  short,  fixed  up  the  empire  so  near  right, 

That  this  one  adage  made  its  greatest  bliss, 
That  rank  fattened  at  top  where  she  had  got  them, 
And  squalid  poverty  starved  at  the  bottom  ! — 

XLIV. 

Grew  diplomatic,  and  resolved  to  put 
A  new  batch  of  ambassadors  in  place, 

And  for  that  purpose,  set  her  spies  on  foot, 
To  make  report  of  each  particular  case; 

She'd  sent,  'tis  true,  her  best  already — but 
Less  knowing  ones  would  do  her  less  disgrace, 

And  changing  ministers,  as  nations  give  it  ye, 

Shows  you  of  course  their  wonderful  activity, 

XLV. 

And  that  they  don't  permit  corruption,  and 
Needless  extravagance  and  ostentation, 

To  lake  the  cash  from  their  own  proper  lands, 
And  spend  it  in  a  far  outlandish  nation  ; 

True — we  can  not  make  out  or  understand 

The  saving — when  each  new  sprig  of  legation, 

Has  such  a  fee  as  we  should  think  albout  fit, 

For  salary  and  all,  by  way  of  outfit ! 

XLVI. 

We  might  have  learned  her  something — we  recalled 

If  I  mistake  not,  one  ambassador 
So  soon,  his  ship  was  merely  overhauled, 

So  that  he  never  touched  a  foreign  shore; 
Some  wondered,  but  economy  was  bawled, 

And  all  the  Nestors  of  the  party  swore 
That  sending  him  was  right,  stopping  him,  better, 
And  all  this,  saving  money  to  the  letter. 

XLVIL    - 

Catherine  discovered  that  his  envoyship 

Was  trading  more  in  love  than  secret  papers; 

Might  he  not  be  most  likely  to  let  slip 

Some  weighty  matter,  in  his  amorous  capers  ? 

Of  course;  so  in  the  next  old  passage  ship 

That  followed  down  the  Baltic  course  to  shape 

The  count  of  Strogkanoff,  mentioned  before,  [hers 

Was  sent  to  look  the  secret  business  o'er, 

XLVIII. 

With  orders  (this  is  quite  a  statesman's  secret), 
To  send  Don  Juan  back  if  he  would  come, 

To  tell  him  that  the  royal  joy  would  be  great 
If  he  would  give  up  papers  and  come  home, 

That  the  czarina  had  some  two  or  three  great 
Kettles  of  small  fish  to  boil  up  and  scum, 

Which  might  redound  to  his  honor  and  profit, 

If  he  should  make  the  proper  ratio  off  it. 

XLIX. 

The  honor  was  a  government  employ 

After  the  manner  of  Sing-Sing  or  Auburn, 

The  profit,  that  extremely  placid  joy, 

Where  we,  without  the  labor  of  a  job,  earn 


Boarding  and  lodging  cheap,  and  do  not  cloy 

By  overfeeding,  where  there  is  no  jaw  born 
Of  too  much  company ;  and  where  the  quiet 
Is  quite  too  much  secure,  to  breed  a  riot. 

L. 

Or  maybe,  cooling  off  his  southern  blood 

With  a  short  travel  to  Siberia, 
As  foreign  touring  does  a  world  of  good 

To  young  men  setting  out  in  wisdom's  way ; 
This  is  what  Catherine  had  done  if  she  could; 

We  sometimes  miss  a  figure  in  our  play, 
And  in  her  majesty's  great  game  of  whist, 
Sometimes,  like  all  the  world,  her  honors  missed. 

LI. 

i  I  have  not  caught  Don  Juan  yet ;  well  wait, 
I'm  after  him,  and  that  is  something  gained, 

You'll  see  my  rhyming  horse  with  ears  set  straight 
And  every  muscle  in  the  struggle  strained, 

Before  I  finish  ;  if  it  is  my  fate 

To  find  him  ere  my  steed  is  travel-sprained, 

I  shall  wind  up  the  chase  with  a  tableau, 

Some  apparitions,  and  a  death  or  so. 

LII. 

Is  there  no  justice,  styled  poetical, 

Administered  in  the  great  bulk  of  cases, 

Merely  because  the  chance  is  very  small 
Of  seeing  it,  otherwise,  in  many  places  ? 

Don't  the  good  marry,  and  the  wicked  fall 
Into  bad  prisons,  troubles,  and  disgraces  ? 

And  wont  the  Don  furnish  an  illustration 

Of  what  bad  things  now  from  bad  education  ? 

LIII. 

Of  course  !  So  up  the  Baltic  !     Up— how  far  ? 

Through  Skager  Rack  and  Categat,  Gulf  Finland, 
Channel,  and  sounding,  island,  bank,  and  bar, 

Of  that  great  northern  sea,  miscalled  an  inland ; 
So  to  the  western  breeze  bends  low  the  spar, 

That  wafts  the  gallant  ship  the  first  to  win  land, 
Speeds  the  light  vessel  up  the  classic  shore, 
And  scarcely  stops  for  toll  at  Elsinore. 

LIV. 
Juan  and  Leila,  as  I  told  you,  stood 

Upon  the  deck,  and  swept  from  England's  coast, 
And  Juan  felt  the  sea-breeze  cool  his  blood, 

And  felt  his  light  hair  from  his  forehead  tossed, 
As  the  white  sea-spray  rose  upon  the  flood, 

And  gathered  into  dew-drops  as  it  crossed, 
And  sparkled  on  the  vesture  of  the  two, 
Who  hailed  it  as  an  old  friend  just  grown  new. 

LV. 

And  Juan's  eyes  back  from  the  water  turned 

To  his  companion — it  was  natural, 
Water  and  woman  both  alike  are  spurned 

From  confidential  friendship  by  us  all, 
i  Because  we  call  them  changing — I  have  mourned 
That  this  should  be  the  cause  of  woman's  fall, 
i  That,  love  her  as  we  will,  we  dare  not  trust  her, 
I  Love  will,  but  confidence  will  not,  pass  muster. 

LVI. 

Juan,  however,  had  no  farther  thought 

Of  this  particular  analogy, 
Than  so  much  as  his  quick  regards  had  brought 

To  Leila's  face  and  figure,  from  the  sea ; 
And  having  little  else  to^ think  about, 

He  scanned  her  for  a  moment,  leisurely, 
And  saw,  what  until  now  he  had  not  seen, 
That  she  had  grown  a  woman  at  fifteen. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LVII. 

Truth  is,  our  hero  had  been  very  busy 
At  studying  other  faces,  and  of  course 

Had  been  with  other  flatteries  too  dizzy, 

To  let  her  "  sister  feeling"  have  much  force ; 

He'd  found  the  time  at  Lady  Pinchbeck's  easy, 
Her  rooms'  attraction  had  an  unknown  source — 

Till  now,  and  thinking  once,  he  thought  it  over, 

How  easily,  if  a  stranger,  he  could  love  her. 

LVIII. 

It  always  is  acknowledged  my  misfortune 
Not  to  be  able  to  draw  features  well, 

Particular  description's  not  my  forte ;  one 
Attempt  at  something  of  the  nature,  fell 

Pronounced  a  total  failure  and  a  short  one, 
And  since  that  time  I've  never  tried  to  tell 

The  color  of  a  heroine's  bright  eyes — 

Sometimes  have  actually  forgot  her  size. 

LIX. 

I  look  at  beauty,  and  its  influence  steals 
Upon  me,  like  a  dream  upon  the  night, 

An  unseen  spirit  glides  around  and  seals 
The  keener  powers  of  my  closing  sight, 

And  naught  to  me  in  a  fair  face  reveals 
But  an  untold  perception  of  delight : 

A  thought,  that  I  am  happy  for  the  moment, 

Without  one  reasonable  thought  or  comment. 

LX. 

And  so,  I  can't  describe  it :  I  have  not 

The  smallest  particle  of  an  idea 
What  color  of  a  woman's  eye  firs»t  shot 

The  fire  of  youth  and  beauty  into  me — a 
Pea-green  or  purple,  gooseberry,  or  what- 

Ever  you  choose  to  call  it — I  can  see  a 
Pupil  sometimes,  sometimes  a  pair  of  lids, 
And  getting  closer  all  the  rest  forbids. 

LXI. 

Pillow  your  head  upon  the  ripened  charms 
Of  Eve's  most  perfect  daughter — feel  her  kiss 

Thrilling  the  cold  and  soulless  lip  it  warms, 
With  a  whole  heaven  of  forgotten  bliss, 

And  feel  the  gliding  of  her  fair  white  arms 
Stealing  upon  your  neck  in  a  caress, 

Describe  her  if  you  can,  and  if  you  do, 

The  passion  you  have  feigned  her  is  not  true. 

LXII. 

Woman,  to  us,  should  know  of  no  description, 
Make  her  a  throned  goddess,  if  you  will, 

Resolve  your  mind  to  bear  with  her  deception, 
And  as  you  think  her  once,  so  call  her  still ; 

I  can  not  bear  this  auctioneer  prescription 

Of— so  much  hair,  such  eyes,  and  such  a  "bill," 

Permit  me  to  remind  you  with  some  force, 

That  woman,  though  with  points,  is  not  a  horse. 

LXHI. 
Leila,  the  daughter  of  an  eastern  land, 

Was  fair  as  woman  should  be ;  e'en  so  early — 
There  was  a  taper  fulness  in  her  hand         [nearly 

(And  bust  and  foot,  when  you  could  see  them), 
Approaching  to  the  model  they  have  planned 

For  eastern  heroines  (which  alters  yearly), 
Pure  as  the  sparkle  on  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  with  the  heart  that  pleads  to  find  a  home. 

LXIV. 
I  know  not  whether  Juan  felt  himself 

The  prouder  that  his  little  girl  had  grown 
To  be  a  woman,  and  too  old  by  half 

To  stay  unloved,  had  his  heart  been  alone, 


And  he  not  her  protector ;  for  your  sylph 

When  just  preparing  for  another  throne, 
Loses  her  wings  and  more  than  half  her  beauty, 
And  loving  us  seems  nothing  more  than  duty. 

LXV. 

So  much  for  young  mankind's  protection  over 
Females  as  young  and  twice  as  sensitive, 

Cut  out,  not  for  a  brother,  but  a  lover, 
|      The  heart  is  good  if  the  protection  live, 

For  I  have  lived,  just  haply  to  discover 

That  Platonism,  like  a  worn-out  sieve,  [blame's 

Lets  through  some  things  it  should  not,  and  the 

To  be  set  down  to  calling  things  wrong  names. 

LXVI. 

The  first  thought  was  a  most  unpleasant  one — 
That  she  would  learn  to  prize  another,  soon, 

And  his  most  happy  guardianship  be  done 
Just  when  the  spring  had  ripened  into  June; 

That  she  would  soon  forget  the  hand  that  won 
Her  life  from  war's  red  hand,  a  hard-wrung  boon  ; 

The  next  thought  told  him  this  had  been  unkind, 

And  she  would  hold  him,  as  she  ought,  in  mind. 

LXVII. 

And  then  he  thought  what  kind  of  man,  perchance 
Might  lose  his  hand  and  fortune,  and  win  hers  ? 

Where  would  be  given  the  first  and  fatal  glance 
Which  does  the  business,  as  first  love  avers  ? 

Would  he  be  knight  of  England,  Spain,  or  France, 
Proud  of  his  red  mustaches,  or  his  spurs  ? 

In  short,  would  Leila  ever  love  and  leave  him, 

And  if  she  did,  how  deeply  would  it  grieve  him  ? 

LXVIII. 
Sensible  questions  !  you  shall  know  sometime 

More  than  he  knew,  friend  reader ;  Juan  spoke 
Of  certain  projects  for  the  northern  clime 

That  should  be  finished  if  they  were  not  broke- 
Shooting  Count  Dumpkoff  for  a  trifling  crime, 

At  which  all  Leila's  gentle  kindness  woke, 
And  begged  him  to  be  careful  of  his  blood, 
And  his  opponent's  also,  if  he  could  : 

LXIX. 

And  so  conjured  him  in  her  own  sweet  way 
To  think  that  he  was  all  she  had  on  earth, 

That  he  had  been  to  her  for  many  a  day 
A  brother  true,  as  he  had  shared  her  birth, 

And  that  the  blow  that  carried  him  away, 
Would  leave  her  in  her  loneliness  and  dearth 

Friendless  and  unprotected,  as  he  found  her, 

When  at  Ismail  he  threw  his  arms  around  her. 

LXX. 

But  Juan  took  hey  hands  in  his,  and  kissed  her 
Upon  the  forehead,  and  forbade  her  fear, 

Told  her  that  he  would  hold  his  little  sister 
That  had  outgrown  her  stature  by  a  year, 

Carefully  as  if  all  the  angels  blest  her — 
And  looked  to  see  her  held  extremely  dear, 

A  reigning  goddess,  at  the  Russian  court, 

While  he  did  up  the  politics  for  sport. 

LXXI. 

Leila  had  gone  below  (I'm  circumstantial), 
And  mean  to  follow  on  my  story  now 

Without  a  stoppage — though  'tis  true  the  chance 
Be  tempting  for  a  moralizing  flow,  [will 

I  won't  digress  except  when  words  will  dance  well 
In  philosophic  cant,  you  all  know  how; — 

Leila,  I  said,  had  gone  below,  as  most 

Raw  sailors  do,  the  first  time  off  the  coast. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LXXII. 

And  Juan,  very  listless,  paced  the  deck, 

Looked  at  the  planks  and  upward  at  the  ropes, 

And  on  the  weather-bow  saw  one  dim  speck 
That  was  the  Danish  shore,  as  he  had  hopes, 

And  thought,  if  idle,  how  extremely  quick 
Single  young  gentlemen  might  get  the  mopes, 

And  wished,  having  so  short  a  space  to  walk  to, 

There  was  some  decent  person  there  to  talk  to. 

LXXIII. 

There  were  two  figures  at  the  vessel's  side, 

That  might,  as  he  believed,  make  conversation, 

3o,  smothering  that  old  Hidalgo  pride 
That  keeps  two  strangers  silent  in  vexation, 

When  both  have  ears  and  mouth  strained  open  wide, 
And  both  would  talk  a  week  by  inclination — 

Ele  paused  a  moment  to  survey  the  two, 

Which  I  shall  not  pause  very  long  to  do ; 

LXXIV. 

But  merely  say  that  they  were  Captain  S., 

Or  L.,  or  D.,  with  the  etceteras, 
Rigged  in  the  very  usual  sailor-dress 

That  always  stamps  old  sailors  as  a  class, 
folding  with  his  companion,  some  short  guess 

Of  some  landmark  that  they  were  soon  to  pass, 
And  that  the  said  companion  wore  a  mixture 
!)f  military-cut  and  sailor-fixture. 

LXXV. 

Tall,  thin,  and  iron-faced,  with  every  line 

Of  his  hard  countenance  begrimmed  and  stained, 
As  if  the  smoke  and  dust,  red  battle's  sign, 
Beyond  the  washing,  had  itself  remained, 
With  here  and  there  a  small  infernal  mine         [ed, 
Where  the  fierce  passions  of  the  man  were  chain- 
That  might  be  ruin  if  they  once  were  loosed, 
And  looked  as  if  they  might  have  once  been  used. 

LXXVI. 

He  turned  as  Juan  neared  him,  and  held  out 
A  hand  that  looked  like  iron  very  much, 

That  Juan  really  thought  would  be  about 
As  gentle  as  a  thumb-screw  in  its  touch; 

And  though  not  commonly  disposed  to  flout 
A  stranger's  courtesy,  when  given  as  such — 

The  hand  had  really  such  an  iron  look,  it 

Was  more  than  half  drawn  back  before  he  took  it, 

LXXVI  [. 
And  said,  "  Small  courtesies  are  of  some  use, 

Especially  with  strangers,  my  name  is — " 
"  No  matter,"  said  the  stranger,  "  may  the  deuce 

Take  introductions,  and  especially  this, 
Permit  me,  by-and-by,  to  introduce 

My  name  to  you,  your  name  I  do  not  miss, 
You  happen,  Don,  to  bear  a  face,  that,  met, 
It  is  not  very  easy  to  forget. 

LXXVIII. 

"I  think  I  heard  you  talk  just  now  of  shooting 
Count  Dumpkoff;  that  would  be  extremely  cruel, 

[  had,  last  month,  the  happiness  of  putting 
A  very  fatal  stoppage  to  his  gruel —  [ing, 

Fixed  him  with  grave-clothes,  and  the  rest  all  suit- 
In  fact,  I  killed  him  lately,  in  a  duel; 

My  satisfaction  in  the  act  is  double, 

That  I  have  happened  to  save  you  the  trouble. 

LXXIX. 

"  You  do  not  know  me  yet !  you  do  not  hear 
The  northern  news  so  quickly  as  you  should, 

Papers,  in  Russia,  come  out  twice  a  year, 
And  no  one  reads  them,  so  they  do  no  good, 
3 


Despatches  are  so  slow,  they  make  one  swear, 

Especially  if  in  a  swearing  mood, 
However,  Dumpkoff  will  not  trouble  me, 
Nor  you,  when  you  return,  most  probably." 

LXXX. 

"  I  am,"  said  Juan,  "  very  much  obliged 
To  you,  for  killing  off  the  Russian  bears, 

Although,  in  fact,  my  dignity  was  pledged 
To  punish  Dumpkoff  for  some  northern  airs, 

But  if  you  have  him  comfortably  ledged, 

All  the  accounts  between  us,  must  be  squares ; 

Kill  me  some  dozen  others  as  a  favor, 

And  I  shall  be  obliged  to  you  for  ever." 

LXXXI. 
"  You  kill  your  own  extremely  well,  Don  Juan, 

Ismail  has  not  forgotten  you,  I  think ; 
However,  flattery's  cup  is  not  the  true  one 

To  hand  a  Spanish  gentleman  to  drink, 
We  all  like  less  to  hear  a  deed  than  do  one, 

And  fortune's  corks  would  like  sometimes  to  sink, 
No  matter !  our  good  deeds  sink  soon  enough. 
And  the  world's  waves  with  me,  are  rather  rough. 

LXXXII. 

"  I  wish  to  tell  you  one  unhappy  truth, 
That  Russia,  just  now,  is  no  place  for  us, 

Catherine  of  Russia — do  not  start — likes  youth 
For  the  first  time,  but  brooks  no  overplus — 

I've  learned  the  lesson  bitterly,  in  sooth, 
But  learned  to  take  it  with  no  general  fuss, 

That  all  things  cloy  her  royal  appetite ; 

She  can  not  favor  even  too  much  fight. 

LXXXIII. 

"  That  old  blockhead  Potemkin,  manages 

To  keep  those  cut-throat  Turks  three  quarters 

To  use  up  Catherine's  yearly  finances,     [whipped, 
And  murder  off  her  troops  as  fast  as  shipped ; 

Wo  to  the  man  who  makes  out  more  or  less, 
She  could  not  keep  her  glory  up,  except 

She  had  that  old-contested  battle-ground, 

To  make  her  mighty  name  in  arms  resound. 

LXXXIV. 

"  The  smoke  has  hardly  yet  worn  off  my  face, 
That  grimmed  it  in  that  old  she-tiger's  service  ^ 

No  man  dare  say  that  I  am  in  disgrace, 

But  we  are  dead,  with  no  employ  to  nerve  usr 

Potemkin  rules  it  in  his  pride  of  place, 

And  gives  such  work  as  he  sees  fit  to  carve  us, 

My  admiral's  flag  is  hardly  a  whole  shirt, 

But  will  be  dish-cloths  when  I  eat  such  dirt. 

LXXXV. 

"  Well,  let  it  pass ;  we  all  must  have  our  time 
For  good  or  evil  fortune,  good  or  evil, 

My  reputation  has  been  one  half  crime, 
If  crime  is  bringing  pride  to  my  own  level ! 

It  makes  a  pretty  jingle  in  a  rhyme —  [devil  f 

The  Scottish  blackguard,  Paul  Jones,  and  the 

I'm  called  all  three,  by  various  fits  and  turns, 

And  may  be  devil,  all  except  the  horns." 

LXXXVI. 

"  The  devil,  if  you  will,"  said  Juan,  "  I 
Have  no  uncommon  hatred  for  the  name  r 

Names  are  bestowed  without  a  reason  why, 
And  your  case,  admiral,  may  be  the  same, 

Pardon  me,  that  my  unexpecting  eye 
Had  no  suspicion  of  the  rank  you  claim ; 

And  I  will  pardon  that  you  talked  so  long, 

Leaving  my  guesses  wholly  in  the  wrong. 


34 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LXXXVII. 
"  I  know  no  reason  why  my  foot  should  fear 

To  tread  the  Russian  boundaries  ;  and  fur  you — 
I  am  surprised  that  killing  off  too  near 

Has  injured  your  disposal  of  the  blue; 
And  for  Potemkin.  the  old  Russian  bear 

Had  only  one  such  despicable  spew : 
I  owe  her  no  allegiance  as  her  right, 
And  to  compel  it,  she  has  not  the  might !" 

LXXXVIIT. 
"  So,  to  be  sure,  keep  clear  of  her,"  said  Jones, 

"  As  I  shall :  let  me  tell  you  in  a  word 
The  treatment  I  have  shared  from  Europe's  thrones, 

Denmark  and  France,  the  Russian  being  the  third, 
Treatment  that  no  unspotted  nation  owns, 

Though  it  has  soiled  America's  young  bird  : 
They  all  have  pampered  me  till  pay-day  came — 
And,  truly,  then  they  had  forgot  my  name ! 

LXXXIX. 

"  However,  of  yourself,  it  was  no  secret 

At  Catherine's  court  some  fourteen  days  ago, 

That  you  were  but  recalled  to  hear  and  see  great 
Changes  in  ministerial  overthrow; 

Even  that  court  can  not  hold  two  or  three  great ; 
You  were  successful  in  the  opening  throw, 

And  let  me  caution  you,  as  one  true  friend, 

To  let  your  leaving  it  remain  the  end." 

XC. 

"  And  not  return  to  Russia  ?" — "  Not  return  : 
You  have  it — do  you  ever  take  advice  ?" 

"  Undoubtedly,  brave  friend  !  I  never  spurn 
What  may  be  gained  at  such  a  moderate  price  ; 

Give  me  your  hand,  for  thanks  :  if  I  return, 
A  brave  man's  words  are  kept;  let  this  suffice, 

And  do  not  think  me  fool  enough  to  spare 

A  head  that  fits,  as  mine  does,  to  a  hair." 

XCI. 

"  The  Danish   coast '.— I  leave  you."—"  For  the 
court  ?" 

"  Ay ;  Christiern's  throne  is  mortgaged  for  a  sum 
That  they  will  pay  me  when  they're  out  of  sport 

At  other  things  :  and  when  will  that  time  come  ? 
About  as  soon  as  I  fight  ship  or  fort 

At  any  Christian  ruler's  trump  or  drum; 
And  if,  for  want  of  change,  my  spirits  lag, 
I'll  fight,  as  1  have  fought,  Paul  Jones's  flag  !" 

XCII. 
Paul  Jones  the  corsair,  as  they  often  call  him — 

Paul  Jones  the  brave  man,  as  he  really  was — 
Though  sleeping  where  no  changes  can  befall  him, 

Should  be  safe  from  Detraction's  iron  jaws  ! 
And  show  me  not  the  man  who  stops  to  maul  him, 

The  first  sea-eagle  of  our  infant  cause  ! 
And  yet  his  memory  has  more  contradiction 
Than  any  old  Greek  source  of  lie  and  fiction. 

XCIII. 

What  is  man's  reputation  ?    Some  strange  thing 
That  all  creation  can  not  catch  or  hold  ; 

No  one  knows  whence  the  very  currents  spring 
That  form  a  character  for  base  or  bold  ; 

Flying  reports,  for  ever  on  the  wing — 

Given  in  heat,  and  stereotyped  when  cold — 

Make  up  two  thirds  even  of  history's  page, 

And  have  done  so,  since  writing's  earliest  age. 

XCIV. 
Within  two  days,  I've  seen  two  specimens : 

One  very  favorable  life  of  Jones, 
Giving  him  glory  above  other  men's 

Which  no  one  in  his  sober  senses  owns; 


The  other  piles  his  crimes  by  fives  and  tens, 
And  makes  a  walking  spectre  of  his  bones 
And  both,  being  on  the  reasonable  side, 
Excite  my  admiration  and  my  pride. 

xcv. 

Possessing  talents  fitted  for  command, 
It  was  his  fate  to  be  a  tool  for  men, 

As  he  has  been  for  me — called  but  to  stand 
Between  Don  Juan's  visiting  again 

The  Russian  empress  in  her  northern  land, 
And  keeping  all  the  circumstances  plain 

To  make  him  turn  again  to  other  climes, 

Where  we  shall  see  him  at  the  proper  times. 


CANTO  VI. 

I. 

WHAT  then  ?    I  do  not  know,  nor  you,  nor  you, 

Nor  either  one  of  the  eternal  squad 
j  Who  keep  my  strained  eyes  settled  black  and  blue, 
And  my  chafed  spirit  more  than  two  thirds  mad  ; 
j  Who  knows  the  consequence  of  what  they  do  ? — 

Whether  for  very  good  or  very  bad  ? 
J  And  who  would  turn  their  chosen  path  one  jot 
To  change  for  good  or  ill  another's  lot  ? 

II. 

Who  cares  ?    Ay,  now  I  have  it  :  I  am  starting 

A  dissertation  upon  selfishness — 
A  microscopic  glass  to  view  the  heart  in — 

And  show  you  what  a  most  confounded  mess 
It  is,  and  how  self  puts  the  bigger  part  in, 

And  how  we  don't  care  two  pence  for  distress, 
j  Provided  we  are  not  too  near  connected, 
And  happen  not  to  have  our  purse  aifected. 

III. 

Who  cares  ?   'tis  not  who  knows — we  know  enough 
To  put  our  friendly  words  and  kindly  deeds 

In  requisition,  if  the  softer  stuff 

Of  hearts  was  easier  "pumped  up"  at  needs, 

And  we  were  not  so  given  to  rebuff 

The  application,  when  young  Mercy  pleads: 

She  being  the  only  woman  young  and  beautiful 

That's  ever  kicked  away  by  the  undutiful. 

IV. 

Who  cares  ?  (this  is  my  text) — who  sympathizes 
Even  in  feeling,  let  alone  the  purse  ? 

We  rhymers  have  a  sympathy  that  rises 
And  spawns  itself  in  execrable  verse ; 

But  Feeling  without  interest  otherwise  is 

A  guest  starved  out  and  banished,  if  no  worse — 

Killed,  if  she  proves  herself  too  inconvenient, 

And  pensioned  off  quite  lightly  when  most  lenient. 

V. 
The  world  is  Indian  :  the  despised  red  man 

Gives  an  idea  of  our  social  state : 
The  circles  of  our  love  are  on  his  plan — 

So  far  extending,  in  our  love  or  hate, 
As  our  tribe  reaches  :  it  is  all  we  can 

To  interest  us  in  our  kinsmen's  fate  : 
Our  love  sinks  with  the  stone  into  the  wave, 
And  at  the  ripple's  edge  finds  out  a  grave  I 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


35 


VI. 

Who  would  extend  it  ?     It  is  right,  no  doubt, 
Our  care  should  have  a  boundary — it  is  well 

That  after  such  a  distance,  we  shut  out 
Even  the  feeling  of  a  funeral-knell ; 

'Tis  a  convenient  garb  that  wraps  about 
Feelings  that  choke  us  if  allowed  to  swell 

To  the  full  measure  of  man's  social  kindness, 

And  God  has  sent  a  boon  even  in  blindness. 

VII. 
I  did  not  mean  (T  think  not)  to  reproach 

Mankind  for  stoicism,  but  to  say 
That  apathy  unknown  makes  its  approach, 

Creeping  upon  us  slowly,  day  by  day ; 
Time  has  been,  that  the  beetle  and  the  roach 

My  foot  would  shun,  as  careful  not  to  slay 
As  it  is  now  to  crush  them,  if  they  come 
Too  near  ine  when  Good-Humor's  not  at  home ! 

VIII. 

I  should  have  "  passed  by  on  the  other  side," 
And  left  the  wounded  Jew  to  his  Samaritan, 

Who  doubtless  look  some  strange,  outlandish  pride 
In  doing  singular  things  ;  I  do  not  bear  it  in 

My  system  to  swim  up  against  the  tide : 

I  have  some  kindness,  but  no  heart  to  wear  it  in, 

And  probably  have  learned  to  keep  aloof 

From  proper  feeling— shall  I  give  a  proof? 

IX. 

Three  months  ago,  it  might  be— not  long  since — 
I  bent  beside  the  couch  of  cominsr  death 

One  fearful  night,  when  (it  is  no  pretence) 
My  spirit's  heaven  hung  upon  a  breath — 

When  youth,  and  my  own  love,  beneath  my  glance 
Lay  withering  like  the  olden  fabled  wreath, 

Poisoned  with  heaven's  dew,  and  dyinsr,  dying, 

To  fill  a  grave  where  we  should  both  be  lying. 

X. 

I  wept — she  was  my  own  ! — I  looked  around 
On  the  still  beauty  of  the  calm  moonlight 

That  (music  almost  breathing  into  sound) 
Lay  gorgeously  upon  the  summer  night, 

And  looked  upon  the  shining  stars  that  bound 
The  diadem  of  God's  eternal  might — 

And  thought  it  was  unkind  for  them  to  shine 

And  light  his  world,  when  death  was  dark  on  mine  ! 

XL 

I  looked  to  see  the  stars  of  heaven  pale 
Before  the  heaviness  of  my  own  grief: 

And  saw  one  cloud  across  the  bright  moon  sail, 
And  thought  its  fleeting  shadow  a  relief; 

And  thousrht  it  bitterness  that  I  should  wail 
The  falling  of  my  second  sprint,  the  leaf 

That  promised  o'er  the  ruined  shrine  to  grow, 

And  have  so  few  to  mark  the  final  blow. 

XII. 
I  dreamed  of  death  and  burial  :  I  thought  o'er 

The  dark  hearse  and  the  coffin — the  slow  crowd 
Pressing  to  see  the  silent  face  that  wore 

An  angel's  beauty  in  its  face,  and  bowed 
Unto  decay  so  sweetly  ;  and  once  more  [loud 

I  knew  that  smiles  would  gleam  and  words  be 
As  they  were  every  day  :  I  thought,  and  wept — 
Praying  her  burial  might  be  sadder  kept ! 

XIII. 

She  lived  ! — And,  reader,  do  not  turn  away 
In  sheer  disgust,  if  you  can  help  it :  I, 

Of  course,  for  days  was  in  a  solemn  way, 
And  kept  all  things  most  reverentially — 


Was  grateful  and  all  that — was  heard  to  say 

That  I  should  look  on  death  with  chastened  eye, 
And  that  a  mourning-room  I  scarce  could  tread 
Without  a  thought  as  if  it  held  my  dead. 

XIV. 

Plaintively  spoken  ! — Two  weeks  afterwards, 
Young,  beautiful,  and  all,  perished  by  drowning, 

The  wife  of  an  old  friend — and  our  regards 
Called  us  his  funeral  sacrament  surrounding ; 

And  while  that  holy  gathering  of  words — 

"  The  resurrection  and  the  life" — was  sounding, 

The  usual  pathetics  were  gone  off  in, 

And  I  dozed  very  nicely  by  the  coffin  J 

XV. 

Ehem  ! — But  do  not  say  that  I  am  selfish 

Above  the  average :  I  only  keep 
My  head  inside,  like  turtles  and  all  shell-fish, 

And  snooze  it  nicely  in  a  six  months'  sleep: 
We  all  are  wayward,  wild,  and  very  elh'sh, 

And  should  be  oysters,  far  below  the  deep, 
To  carry  out  our  wishes,  and  lie  still, 
Alone,  apart,  and  far  from  every  ill. 

XVL 

Our  talk  is  of  ourselves— our  egotism 
Fills  up  the  vacant  space;  carry  us  off 

To  foreign  climes  and  customs — paint  a  schism 
In  England's  church — speak  of  Spain's  graveyard 

Or  tell  us  of  an  Apennine  abysm —  [cough — 

We'll  listen  to  you  quietly  enough  ; 

But  never  trust  me,  if  we  do  not  come. 

At  the  first  chance,  and  settle  down  at  home  ! 

XVII. 

We  read  long  poems  of  a  hundred  cantos 
To  people  very  sick,  stretched  out  on  sofas, 

Concerning         ***»*» 
And  warriors'  scalps,  and  other  Indian  trophies, 

With  parted  lovers  and  their  various  want-to's, 
Keeping  us  under  such  a  pain  as  no  phiz^ 

Could  tell  the  half  of:  for  one  such  infliction 

Believe  me,  I've,  the  keenest  recollection — 

XVIII. 
And  mean,  when  opportunity  shall  offer, 

To  pay  my  friend  in  his  own  proper  coin, 
For  reading  such  a  lot  at  his  own  proffer  : 

I'll  make  him  hear  four  times  as  much  of  mine — 
I  care  not  if  he  curse  me  or  turn  scoffer — 

I'll  read  it  to  him  calmly,  line  by  line  ! 
If  he  live  through  all  that,  I've  no  revenge 
Severe  enough  even  to  make  him  cringe. 

XIX. 
Humph  !  I  have  read  you  quite  a  moral  lecture 

On  esrotism,  selfishness,  and  so  forth  : 
The  wolf,  they  say,  is  quite  a  good  protector 

From  other  beasts  of  all  the  lambs  that  go  forth 
To  this  worKPs  pasture;  he  himself  may  hector 

So  much  the  easier ;  if  I  had  no  foe  worth 
Disputing  with  in  selfishness,  I  should 
Play  out  my  egotism  by  the  rood. 

XX. 

I  should  write  fourteen  cantos  of  reflection, 
And  personal  adventure,  and  stale  jest ; 

And  three  times  in  each  canto,  for  connexion, 
Menucn  Don  Juan's  name,  and  let  him  rest; 

But  conscience  has  the  habit  of  correction, 
And  will  not  let  me  do  as  I  think  best — 

And  hints  that  though  I  fill  the  largest  shelf, 

The  world  has  some  one  else  beside  myself. 


36 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XXI. 

'•'  And  I  had  hoped,"  and  so  forth,  "  fate  decrees 
It  shall  be  otherwise,  and  I  submit ;" 

The  torch  of  Juan's  life,  condemned  to  freeze 
In  northern  climes,  shall  once  again  be  lit 

In  the  warm  sunny  south — lie  at  your  ease 
Upon  that  sofa,  or  if  easier,  sit 

In  that  fine^  cushioned  easy  chair,  and  dream 

That  our  light  rhymes  are  really  what  they  seem. 

XXII. 

'Tis  no  hard  task.     We  left  him  on  the  sea, 
Just  turning  from  his  purposed  voyage  north, 

Thinking  by  fits,  and  undecidedly, 

How  much  a  place  as  favorite  was  worth, 

And  whether  there  was  any  chance  to  be 
A  greater  fool  upon  the  common  earth. 

Than  to  depend  on  princes'  smiles,  and  live 

By  what  the  royal  fingers  choose  to  give. 

XXIII. 
However,  he  grew  calmer,  hummed  a  tune 

That  he  had  heard  in  Seville's  orange  bowers, 
And  thought  of  all  the  south 's  eternal  boon 

Of  glorious  girls,  and  lavish  waste  of  flowers, 
And  thought  how  pleasantly  beneath  the  moon, 

Might  dance  away,  for  him,  the  southern  hours, 
Where  night  cloaks  in  the  air  were  never  wanted, 
And  where  no  frost  king  kept  the  windows  haunted. 

XXIV. 

The  waves  dashed  up  in  moonlight — it  was  night, 
The  night  of  middle  climes,  such  as  we  stand 

In,  many  a  time,  and  see  the  flickering  light 
Lying  upon  the  waters  as  a  band, 

And  feel  the  chill,  so  tremulous  and  slight, 
Of  ocean's  fitful  air  borne  o'er  the  land ; 

Such  as  we  shut  our  eyes  in  and  stand  still, 

And  sleep  in  waking,  in  that  pleasant  chill. 

XXV. 

The  ship  bore  on,  and  Leila  had  come  up 

And  stood  beside  him,  and  he  wrapped  his  cloak 

Half  round  her  slight  form,  lest  the  bounding  scup 
Of  the  slight  waves  that  round  the  vessel  broke, ' 

Might  dampen  her  too  freely — (ocean's  cup 

Is  brought  us  and  poured  out,  when  not  bespoke,) 

And  half  a  dozen  sailor  forms  were  laid 

Around  the  deck,  in  moonlight  and  in  shade. 

XXVI. 

There  was  a  stir,  a  sitting  down  again, 
And  nearer  in  a  group,  as  if  they  waited 

To  listen  to  a  singer's  olden  strain, 
Or  hear  a  legend  of  past  time  related  ; 

A  song  rang  out  that  seemed  that  group  to  chain, 
As  if  the  loss  of  every  word  were  fated, 

And  Joan  listened  with  his  breath  held  in, 

To  feel  those  tones  upon  his  spirit  win. 

XXVII. 

It  was  a  song  of  France — the  wine  grape  hung 
Upon  the  breather's  lips,  the  peasant  girls 

With  their  blue  eyes  so  gayly  skyward  flung, 
And  wreaths  of  strange  bright  flowers  amid  their 

Danced  in  the  vintage,  as  light  music  rung,  [curls, 
And  fairy  forms  went  round  in  giddy  whirls, 

Changing  into  the  sadness  of  a  song, 

Whose  music  we  shall  listen  for,  how  long  I 

1. 

I  have  stood  on  the  hills  of  the  northern  land, 
I  have  looked  on  the  glorious  south, 

But  my  heart  is  called  back  by  a  mighty  hand 
To  the  scenes  of  my  early  youth, 


And  often  I  turn  in  the  heavy  night 

With  a  long  and  a  fond  desire, 
To  look  once  again  on  the  early  light 

In  the  beautiful  valley  of  Vire. 

2. 
But  I  can  not  go  back.     'Twas  the  vintage  feast 

And  the  time  of  the  vintage  dance, 
When  the  bounding  step  and  the  fairy  waist 

Shone  bright  to  many  a  glance, 
When  the  flowers  were  wreathed  in  the  sunny 

And  the  lips  were  wreathed  with  smiles,  [curls, 
And  the  merry  laugh  of  blue-eyed  girls 

Came  over  the  vine-clad  hills. 

3. 
'Twas  my  bridal  day,  and  one  fair  glance 

Shone  bright  above  them  all, 
And  we  oft  stood  still  in  the  bounding  dance 

To  gaze  on  her  light  footfall ; 
And  I  wreathed  my  hand  in  her  golden  hair 

And  her  fingers  clasped  in  mine, 
And  she  bound  for  me  with  a  playful  care 

A  crown  of  the  clinging  vine. 

4. 
But  the  serpent  stung  her ;  she  died  at  eve 

With  her  white  arms  round  my  neck, 
And  I  felt  on  my  own  her  bosom  heave 

With  the  pain  I  could  not  check ; 
And  I  laid  her  down  when  the  breath  was  gone 

And  never  saw  her  more — 
Till  over  the  hill  the  train  wound  on, 

With  the  white  bier  tarried  before. 

5. 
I  can  not  go  back ;  I  shall  never  again 

Bend  low  to  her  gentle  kiss, 
Never  press  her  heart  with  a  quivering  strain 

To  the  heavy  pulses  of  this, 
For  quiet  and  low  in  the  green  valley  side, 

In  the  shade  of  the  old  church  spire  ; 
They  have  laid  her  to  sleep,  the  glory  and  pride 

Of  the  beautiful  valley  of  Vire. 

XXVIII. 

There  is  a  power  in  song,  that  stirs  the  heart 
To  its  full  depth ;  I  would  that  I  could  sing, 

And  with  my  lips ;  I  would  give  up  my  art 
Of  bidding  strange  and  wild  creations  spring 

Forth  from  the  mists  of  fancy — could  I  part 
The  realms  of  sound  as  with  an  angel's  wing, 

And  gush  out  melody  as  one  spring  bird, 

Singing  the  olden  strains  that  I  have  heard. 

XXIX. 

Tell  us  another's  sorrows,  and  we  turn 
Coldly  away  ;  but  tell  us  them  in  song, 

And  thrill  us  till  our  very  vitals  burn 
With  fiery  bitterness  or  plaintive  wrong  ; 

And  cold  must  be  the  ashes  in  the  urn, 
If  spirits  do  not  kindle  up  and  throng 

The  heart's  best  temples ;  but  I  can  not  fashion 

My  harsh  tones  into  aught  that  sounds  like  passion. 

XXX. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


37 


XXXI. 

Fancy  these  stars  exceedingly  expressive, 
And  answering  in  the  place  of  many  words  ! 

I'm  slightly  tired  of  being  so  digressive, 

And  must  call  in  my  various  flocks  and  herds  : 

The  fiat  of  my  publisher's  decisive, 

And  he  has  clipped  the  wings  of  half  my  birds 

By  hinting  that  a  certain  stated  length 

Is  all  that  is  allotted  to  my  strength. 

XXXII. 

Fancy  these  stars  to  answer  in  the  place 

Of  time  and  distance — let  them  be  three  years — 

And  such  a  simple  gathering  of  space 

As  'twixt  the  Baltic  and  South  France  appears  : 

Our  little  drama  changes  to  those  days 

When  France's  mighty  drench  of  blood  and  tears 

Was  gathering  to  its  overflow,  and  Error 

Was  grinding  axes  for  the  Reign  of  Terror  ! 

XXXIII. 

Oh  !  beautiful,  and  so  forth,  is  South  France, 
When  peasant-girls,  and  so  forth,  go  it  strong 

At  certain  moves,  and  so  forth,  called  a  dance, 
And  certain  notes,  and  so  forth,  called  a  song ! 

(I  could  write  stanzas  if  I  had  a  chance, 
And  didn't  happen  to  count  octaves  wrong) — 

Delicious  is  her  air,  and  fine  her  sky, 

And  that  I  do  not  live  there  you  know  why. 

XXXIV. 

There  was  a  fine  house,  and  a  gentleman 
Of  elegance  and  leisure  ;  and  a  wife — 

A  mother  at  eighteen — who,  if  one  can, 
Would  make  a  very  paradise  of  life — 

The  seiur  de  Chassory,  who  sometime  ran 
A  course  with  Lafayette  in  Freedom's  strife, 

And  had  returned  with  him,  to  be  respected 

For  doing  deeds  their  worshippers  neglected. 

XXXV. 

And  Leila  was  a  woman — and  beside 
The  seiur  de  Chassory  had  garnered  up 

Her  woman's  personal  and  maternal  pride, 
And  wished  no  other  crowning  to  her  cup 

Than  had  been  hers — two  years  a  happy  bride, 
And  one  a  mother,  with  her  babe  to  sup 

At  the  heart's  fountain  with  her  :  Juan's  guess 

Of  who  should  win  her,  scarce  had  time  to  miss. 

XXXVI. 

And  she  had  ne'er  forgotten  the  sweet  strain 
Sung  on  the  Baltic,  but  at  vintage-time 

Looked  out  upon  the  purple  grapes  that  rain 
Such  nectar-drops  upon  that  summer  clime— 

And  thought  her  love  for  France  had  sprung  amain 
At  the  first  moment,  from  a  simple  rhyme 

Sung  far  a,\vay  by  one  who  could  not  come 

To  look  upon  a  loved-one's  grave  at  home. 

XXXVII. 

Juan  danced  on  in  Paris — in  that  court 
That,  under  poor  Marie  Antoinette, 

Learned  all  the  fashionable  world  to  sport, 
And  more  than  half  the  richer  world  to  bet — 

Kept  spendthrift  youngsters  free,  though  very  short, 
And  those  who  could  get  credit,  well  in  debt — 

A  court  that,  for  its  folly  and  its  vice, 

Paid,  in  a  little  while,  so  sad  a  price ! 

XXXVIII. 

The  closing  hour  of  the  legitimates, 

The  last  day  of  the  Bourbons — who  in  fact 

Perished  with  Louis  XVI. — history  rates 

That  most  unfortunate  of  monarchs,  cracked  ; 


I  know  not — men  must  fall  with  falling  states — 

And  it  is  probable  the  most  he  lacked 
Was,  one  hour's  resolution  at  the  last : 
And  then,  perhaps,  the  hour  of  grace  was  past ! 

XXXIX. 

There  is  no  Bourbon  since,  no  courtly  pride 
After  the  olden  fashion  :  with  the  empire, 
Lowborn  and  highborn  each  pushed  each  aside, 

And  each  was  but  endeavoring  to  jump  higher; 
Napoleon  had  no  olden  birth  to  guide, 

And  seekers  pulled  the  court-bell  by  the  camp- 
Louis  le  Desire  was  fat  and  gouty,  [wire ; 
And  Charles  the  Tenth  was  splenetic  and  grouty. 

XL. 

And  Louis  Philippe,  last,  and  not  the  worst, 

Thinks  less  of  ancient  pride  than  stock-exchanges, 

Holds  up  a  nation  that  tries  hard  to  burst, 
Gets  nearly  killed  by  various  revenges  : 

Knows  well  by  whom  and  wherefore  he  is  cursed — 
And  rides  but  seldom  by  some  certain  ranges  ! — 

You  can  not  call  him  Bourbon,  at  the  least, 

And  the  legitimates  have  long  since  ceased. 

XLI. 

There  are  some  plants,  they  tell  me,  that  bear  flower 
But  once,  and  that  when  ready  to  decay ; 

And  falling  kingdoms  have  one  glorious  hour — 
Torches  flash  out  before  they  pass  away — 

An  illustration  of  convulsive  power 

That  makes  us,  when  most  sorrowful,  so  gay  : 

Such  was  enjoyment,  fashion,  and  society, 

The  hour  before  France  burst  witii  her  impiety  ! 

XLII. 

Voltaire  was  dead  some  years — just  long  enough 
To  make  men  fight  about  his  memory — 

To  make  some  quote  his  idiotic  stuff 
As  wit  and  very  gentle  pleasantry ; 

And  others,  whom  he  might  have  handled  rough, 
Denouncing  every  word  as  blasphemy  : 

Part  of  their  moral  aptitude  was  chaff' — 

Voltaire  blasphemed  a  little  more  than  half! 

XLIII. 

Immoral  as  France  was,  and  irreligious, 
There  was  a  certain  splendor  in  her  fall — 

That  shows  how,  ere  her  people  grew  litigious, 
Wealth,  wit,  and  beauty,  ruled  it  over  all ; 

Her  moral  degradation  was  prodigious — 
So  had  been  her  corruption  and  her  thrall ; 

And  she  but  paid,  as  most  rich  livers  pay — 

By  gout — for  having  lived  too  well  one  day. 

XLIV. 
And  Juan  lived  upon  the  tide — the  rich 

And  titled  young  ambassador,  who  late 
Had  figured  in  the  north,  at  such  a  pitch 

Was  toasted,  balled,  and  suppered,  in  high  state  ! 
The  only  contest  was,  the  struggle  which 

Should  have  the  honor  to  be  next  his  plate, 
Or  opposite  him  at  the  table,  or 
His  rival  at  the  chess-board's  mimic  war. 

XLV. 

And  this  had  lasted  for  two  years  :  'twas  strange 
That  mortal  man  on  fashion's  tide  could  float 

Mofe  than  two  weeks  unrivalled  !  yet  no  change 
Had  fallen  on  the  set  of  Juan's  coat — 

And  still,  as  ever,  Marmalot  Durange 
Fitted  him  with  his  bijou  of  a  boot — 

Still  his  cravats  were  laid  so  smoothly  down, 

And  he  was  still  the  top  pearl  in  the  crown  ! 


38 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XLVI. 
Never,  indeed,  since  Mephistopheles 

Had  sported  Doctor  Faust  by  way  of  lion, 
And  trying  to  set  him  the  most  at  ease, 

Had  set  some  fifty  titled  females  dying — 
Never  had  fashion's  ruler  held  in  peace 

His  sceptre  for  so  long,  with  no  one  trying 
To  drive  him  out  with  novelty,  that  lever 
That  moves  the  fashionable  world  for  ever. 

XLVII. 

That  this  can  be  so,  does  not  need  a  proof — 
To  those  who  but  remember  how  for  years 

The  man  who  like  D'Orsay  tiles  his  roof, 

Or  wears  his  coat,  may  laugh  at  common  sneers, 

And  that  from  him  the  spoiler  stands  aloof, 
And  he,  from  all  observances,  appears 

Cut  out  to  have  a  very  slight  new  pressing  done, 

And  take  another  girl  for  Lady  Blessington. 

XLVIII. 

Juan's  ascension  to  the  highest  seat 

Of  elegant  Parisian  notoriety, 
Had  sent  him  out,  at  early  hours,  to  meet 

With  pistols,  some  opponents  in  society, 
Till  duels,  even,  were  stale  jokes  of  late, 

And  could  not  rouse  incipient  satiety  ; 
Three  months  before  we  found  him  out,  he  swore 
Even  hair-triggers  might  be  made  a  bore ! 

XLIX. 

I  choose  to  look  at  him  the  first  time,  stepping 
Off  the  side  steps  of  Lady  Tandem's  carriage, 

And  handing  out  a  lady  who  was  reaping 
In  fatness,  the'bad  fruits  of  early  marriage — 

And  with  the  other  hand,  a  fair  girl,  tripping 
As  beautiful  young  s:irls  will  do  at  her  age, 

Whose  fair  round  cheeks,  half-hidden  by  a  veil, 

Have  yet  to  point  a  moral  to  my  tale. 

L. 

Three  years,  say  from  nineteen  to  twenty-two, 
Twenty  to  twenty-three,  or  any  three 

That  brings  the  man  forth — open  to  our  view 
Some  curious  changes — any  man  might  be 

A  moral  lesson,  could  you  read  him  through 

In  those  three  years — thank  Heaven  no  one  reads 

I  have  succeeded,  so  far,  in  concealing  [me, 

Some  rather  strange  phenomena  in  feeling. 

LI. 

Three  years  had  done  their  common  work  on  him, 
Though  such  as  few  would  mark;  the  curving  lip 

Was  fuller,  and  much  heavier ;  in  the  trim 
Of  the  full  beard,  was  the  decisive  clip 

Of  well-grown  manhood,  fuller  was  the  limb; 
An  extra  fulness  at  the  waist  and  hip 

Bespoke  the  epicure  in  embryo, 

Wanting  but  age  and  apathy,  to  grow. 

LII. 
The  brow  was  fair  as  ever,  but  strong  lines 

Circled  it  when  he  smiled,  the  hair  had  thickened 
Upon  his  temples,  but  like  tendril  vines 

Clustered  no  longer,  and  the  face  was  quickened 
With  sudden  changes,  as  if  many  mines 

Lay  hid  beneath  the  surface,  scarcely  reckoned ; 
Less  winning,  but  more  marked  for  woman's  eye, 
And  still  as  ever,  noticed  when  passed  by. 

LIII. 

And  that  fair  girl — beautiful  as  the  love 
That  such  can  bear  in  purity,  that  mixture 

Of  the  young  fawn  with  the  complaining  dove, 
By  far  too  softened  for  a  striking  picture, 


Too  fair  and  too  blue-eyed  to  live  and  move 
In  the  wild  passion  of  an  eastern  victor — 
Was  the  last  idol  of  his  every-day 
Devotion,  in  a  love  so  light  and  gay. 

LIV. 

It  was  a  gala-night;  the  fine  hotel 

Of  the  great  marquis  of  La  Spree  was  lit 

With  an  illumination,  that  did  well 

To  save  the  cost  of  lamplight  in  the  street, 

And  on  the  passer's  ears  the  music  fell, 

And  as  they  looked  up,  might  be  seen  to  flit 

Shadows  and  glimmerings  grotesque  and  uncertain, 

Painted  anew  on  every  gorgeous  curtain. 

LV. 

It  was  a  gala-night ;  the  old  description 

Of  balls  and  routs  may  answer  in  this  place, 

There  was  the  usual  quantum"  of  deception 
Practised  by  way  of  paint,  on  many  a  face, 

But  that's  a  secret,  and  it  must  be  kept  one, 
I  will  not  bring  fine  cheeks  into  disgrace; 

And  such  a  rout  as  Paris  brings  together — 

And  nowhere  else — danced  onward  like  a  feather. 

LVI. 

Do  not  turn  over  leaf — I  shall  not  bore  you 
With  stale  pomposities  I  never  saw, 

You  have  the  least  half  of  the  book  before  you, 
And  as  I  fix  the  traces,  let  me  draw ; 

If  you  are  patient,  lady,  I  adore  you 
Upon  anticipation,  'tis  our  law — 

Ours,  as  poor  scribblers,  to  have  pleasant  lips 

For  one  who  reads  us  through  and  never  skips. 

LVII. 

It  was  a  gala-night,  and  dancing,  old 
In  date,  but  ever  light  and  ever  new — 

Warmed  up  some  blood  that  had  been  running  cold, 
And  heated  younger  pulses,  till  they  grew 

A  little  too  complaisant ;  we  are  told 

At  least,  that  this  is  what  the  waltz  will  do, 

And  do  not  doubt  it,  from  the  feverish  cheeks 

That  mix  among  the  pale,  like  apple-streaks. 

LVIII. 

In  one  of  those  small  niches,  which,  it  seems, 
Are  built  in  ball-rooms  to  put  statues  in 

To  Love  and  Fortune,  where  the  lamplight  gleams 
Less  brightly,  and  the  curtain  is  a  screen, 

And  where  sometimes  youth  sinks  away  and  dreams 
Of  one  who  is  no  more  where  she  has  been — 

There,  with  a  curtain  and  six  feet  to  hide  them, 

Stood  two  who  had  no  secrets  to  divide  them : 

LIX. 

Or  should  have  had  none — if  you  will  but  look 

At  the  fifth  picture  of  poor  Margaret, 
As  drawn  by  Retzsch's  pencil  in  that  book 

Of  Goethe's,  containing  Faust's  career  and  fate — 
Showing  a  woman's  pride  for  once  forsook, 
And  giving  place  to  one  Jong  passionate 
|  And  breathing  kiss  upon  his  lips,  and  round 
I  The  neck,  her  pressing  arms  so  softly  wound — 

LX. 

You  will  discover  all  that  I  could  say 

Of  Juan  pouring  in  the  willing  ear 
Of  young  Ella  Durosnel,  as  hers  lay 

Upon  his  shoulder — all  she  loved  to  hear, 
And  credited  as  only  woman  may, 

Who  from  deceit  has  never  learned  to  fear; 
And  you  will  think  how  birth  was  cast  aside, 
In  that  abandonment  of  woman's  pride. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LXI. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  high-born  race, 

And  loved  one  not  beneath  her;  fame  had  told 

That  Juan's  blood  ran  welling  from  a  place 
As  old  and  red  and  spotless  as  Spain's  gold, 

Rumor  had  given  him  her  pretty  face, 

And  her  his  hand,  so  long,  the  tale  was  old; 

And  no  one  wondered  that  his  thrilling  glance 

And  her  light  foot,  were  missing  in  the  dance. 

LXII. 

And  Juan  spoke  of  Spain,  in  earnest  tones, 
And  told  her  that  a  mother's  death  had  left 

Broad  acres,  in  that  sweetest  of  all  zones, 
Free  and  untrammeled,  for  a  bridal  gift; 

That  his  career  was  done  with  Europe's  thrones, 
And  that  the  wing  that  bore  them  should  be  swift 

Toward  the  land  of  grove  and  orange-bower, 

Where  life  and  love  should  circle  in  an  hour. 

LXIII. 

And  that  one  interview  was  the  full  rose 
Blown  from  the  bud  of  happiness  for  her — 

A  time  such  as  but  once  until  life's  close 
Can  set  the  fountains  of  the  heart  astir; 

And  when  the  ecstacy  no  further  goes, 
And  fate  forbids  aught  deeper  to  recur 

To  memory  as  the  crowning  point — oh  !  deep 

Is  that  remembrance,  and  too  sad  to  weep ! 

LXIV. 

And  there  had  been  a  time,  to  him,  and  me, 
When  the  delight  had  been  reciprocal, 

When  his  vows  had  breathed  naught  but  purity, 
And  mine  been  true,  because  they  were  our  all ; 

Before  undue  familiarity 

With  more  than  this  in  woman,  like  Eve's  fall, 

Had  left  us  knowing  more  of  what  we  should  not, 

And  calling  back  the  ignorance  we  could  not. 

LXV. 

My  scenes  are  but  daguerrotype — I  skip 
All  minor  life,  to  look  on  the  tableaux, 

I  can  not  pause  to  say  how  each  would  trip 
In  quadrille  or  cotillon,  or  to  show 

How  Ella  moved,  with  that  kiss  on  her  lip, 
Before  a  company  who  watched  her  so  : 

I  shall  but  turn  the  picture,  and  hold  up 

The  darker  side  of  Juan's  golden  cup. 

IXVI. 

I  shall  but  show  you,  in  another  street, 
Another  scene,  and  tell  you  he  had  met 

Another  as  a  lover — how  less  sweet 

Than  that  fair  girl — even  when  he  had  set 

His  heart  and  soul  to  win  her  gentle  feet 
To  so  much  love  as  blessed  his  bosom  yet ; 

And  I  shall  show  you  the  deserted  one, 

And  touch  some  little  points,  and  I  am  done. 

LXVII. 

It  was  a  minor  street  in  Paris — one 

Scarce  noticed  as  the  passer-on  moved  through, 
So  deep  and  narrow,  that  the  noon-day  sun 

When  it  crept  in,  had  some  chose  work  to  do, 
Its  buildings  clothed  in  one  eternal  dun 

And  dusky  color,  such  as  you  can  view 
In  the  old  cities  only,  where  men  built 
In  good  old  times,  such  nice  retreats  for  guilt. 

LXVIII. 
One  of  those  streets,  however,  which  enclose, 

Beneath  old  walls,  some  very  pleasant  rooms — 
Whose  outside  filth  something  offends  the  nose, 

But  is  made  up  inside  by  nice  perfumes ; 


One  of  the  streets  that  suit  the  taste  of  those 

Who  love  surprises,  sudden  lights,  and  glooms, 
And  so  forth — in  the  street,  and  human  kind, 
Is  many  a  specimen  of  buried  mind. 

LXIX. 

Excuse  the  street's  name,  and  excuse  the  number, 
Both  are  well  known  to  modern  history, 

Within  the  ruins  of  that  house  there  slumber 
The  ashes  of  the  burnt-out  '93  : 

Within  that  house's  walls  came  chief  and  member 
To  plot  the  overthrow  of  tyranny, 

And  build  up  one  still  stronger,  and  there  met 

Collot  d'Herbois,  Robespierre,  Marat, 

LXX. 

i  The  men  of  blood  in  embryo,  awaiting 

The  issue  of  their  plans  at  different  stages; 
The  dim  old  house  went  down  by  speculating 

Some  years  ago,  in  one  of  its  old  rages, 
And  I  have  thought  all  changes  have  a  fate  in, 

From  shifting  residences  to  bird-cages  : 
J  The  birds  are  flown  or  dead,  for  want  of  care, 
And  we  forget  the  old  house,  "  where  we  were." 

LXXI. 

Within  that  house  and  then,  were  ripening 
The  seeds  of  anarchy  and  ruin,  men 

Whose  hands  were  set  to  bonds  against  their  king, 
Met  in  the  early  nightfall ;  after  ten 

There  were  lure  birds  for  ever  on  the  wing, 
And  any  man  who  stepped  within  it  then$ 

Would  have  bethought  him  of  some  pleasant  place, 

Where  virtue  grows  to  vice  with  easy  grace. 

LXXII. 
For  vice  in  Paris,  had,  and  has  perhaps 

More  neatness,  and  less  paltry  fine  display, 
|  Than  any  other  row  of  gins  and  traps 

That  we  could  light  on  in  a  common  way ; 
France  gives  to  immorality  less  raps 

Over  the  knuckles,  than  another  may, 
Partly  because  she  makes  less  show  and  glitter, 
And  partly  that  you  don't  know  where  to  hit  her. 

LXXIII. 

There's  but  one  room,  however,  where  we  have 
The  slightest  business,  and  then  and  there 

Were  two  who  should  require  a  separate  stave, 
To  paint  them  for  you  as  they  really  were; 

Two  around  whom  it  is  my  choice  to  weave 
A  diplomatic  and  mysterious  air  : 

A  male  and  female  character,  of  course, 

Two  lovers,  or  a  pair  of  something  worse. 

LXX1V. 

It  was  a  room  of  moderate  dimensions, 

Yet  fitted  up  so  light  and  airily, 
That  you  forgot  its  very  slight  pretensions; 

The  furniture  was  elegant,  and  free 
From  the  grotesque  afrangement  of  old  mansions, 

And  without  aught  of  sensuality 
In  pictures,  statuary,  drapery,  couches, 
Or  aught  else,  in  so  far  as  eye-sight  vouches. 

LXXV. 

There  was  one  sofa,  and  upon  it  lay 

Not  sat  or  lounged,  but  lay,  a  man  of  fifty — 

Thick-set,  harsh-featured,  with  hair  slightly  gray 
Scattered  upon  a  brow  as  coarse  and  rifty 

As  if  an  iron  stone  were  dressed  away 

To  form  his  countenance;  another  gift  he 

Possessed  in  its  perfection,  was  an  eye 

Scowling  and  dark  as  any  northern  sky. 


40 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LXXVI. 

And  he  was  looking  upward  with  that  cold 
Unchanging  fixed  expression,  which  alone 

Can  be  perfected  in  a  man  grown  old 
In  sin  or  grief,  to  years  beyond  his  own ; 

That  look  which  seems  as  little  to  unfold, 
As  if  the  eyes  were  looking  out  through  stone — 

Upon  a  woman  standing  at  his  side, 

With  her  arms  folded,  as  in  scorn  or  pride. 

LXXVIF. 

And  she,  might  have  been  half  his  age — at  least 
Four  years  past  twenty,  that  eventful  four 

That  fills  the  taper  of  the  rounded  waist,     [lower, 
And  droops  the  swan-like  neck  some  half  inch 

That  gives  the  heart  of  woman  its  full  feast, 
If  you  but  leave  her  room  to  spread  it  o'er, 

Or  thins  her,  if  neglected  or  uncherished, 

Till  twenty-five  finds  half  her  roses  perished. 

Lxxvm. 

Lip,  eye,  cheek,  form,  were  full ;  the  figure  taller 
Than  my  ideal,  some  would  call  her  coarse 

At  the  first  look,  then  scarce  know  how  to  call  her, 
The  third  look  would  impress  you  with  the  force, 

Vigor,  and  strength,  so  visible  in  all  her 

Gestures  and  glances  ;  with  an  eye — your  horse 

Of  finest  blood  could  scarce  give  one  correction, 

(A  horse's  eye,  dear  reader,  is  perfection). 

LXXIX. 

The  hair,  just  reaching  to  the  neck,  was  heavy 
And  closely  curled,  black  as  the  wearer's  eye, 

Not  tinged  or  sunburnt,  neither  "  soft"  nor  "  wavy," 
(The  fashion  just  at  present,  by-the-bye, 

About  which  all  the  penny-a-liners  rave — I 
Have  given  up  this  ideal  with  a  sigh, 

If  you  will  have  hair  curly,  let  it  curl 

Close  as  you  please,  just  as  the  heart-strings  twirl, 

LXXX. 

And  I  will  love  the  wearer,  as  I  do). 

No  matter ;  there  was  scorn  and  bitter  pride 
Written  upon  that  woman's  cheek,  its  hue 

Might  have  been  ruddy,  ere  the  roses  died, 
But  now  the  ghastly  paleness  glimmers  through, 

And  the  crossed  hands  were  pressed  unto  her  side, 
As  if  convulsively — as  if  she  had 
Grown  either  very  sorrowful,  or  mad. 

LXXXI. 

Wbmen  do  both  sometimes ;  and  there  was  that 
In  the  few  words  that  her  companion  spoke, 

Potent  enough  to  rouse  up  senses,  flat 
And  dull  as  England's  everlasting  smoke, 

Words  that  would  set  the  vultures  gnawing  at 
The  heart-strings,  were  they  not  already  broke  ; 

Words  few  but  bitter,  such  as  some  have  heard, 

And  smote  the  teller  for  a  lying  word. 

LXXXII. 

"  False,  true,  it  may  be,  is  it  true,  Saint  Just  ?" 
And  the  words  hardened,  "  did  you  ever  lie  ?" 

"  Foully,  but  to  my  enemies  ;  I  trust 
Marie,  that  you  do  not  doubt  me,  why 

I  fihould  much  sooner  let  my  powers  rust 

Than  waste  them  :  if  he  had  not  raised  the  cry  : 

Your  gallant  has  gone  back  to  higher  life, 

And  will  not  make  aught  lese  than  Ella  wife. 

LXXXIII. 
"  Your  blood,  I  fancy,  is  the  sole  objection  ; 

Blood,  blood,  you  know ;    and  maybe  you  have 
All  that  you  had  to  give,  in  that  connexion,  [granted 
And  so" — "  Saint   Just !    this  taunt   alone  was 
wanted 


To  make  me  faster  in  my  own  correction, 

And  let  me  know  the  seeds  that  you  have  planted 
Were  told  me  for  your  purposes,  not  mine ; 
No  falsehood !  or  you  hang  with  your  own  line  !" 

LXXXIV. 

"  Not  by  your  information,  let  me  tell  you," 

Answered  Saint  Just,  "  I  fear  not  your  proposing, 

You  may  but  hasten  matters  if  you  will,  you 
May  make  us  jerk  the  net  that  we  are  closing, 

And  with  your  namesake,  they  will  likely  kill  you. 
It  would  be  common  blood,  with  royal  oozing ; 

But  of  the  marriage,  do  but  ask  Don  Juan, 

And  ten  to  one  he  says  my  tale's  a  true  one. 

LXXXV. 

"  I  never  knew  him  tell  a  downright  lie, 

Though  he  has  crept  round  fifty,  he  is  young, 

At  least  enough  to  deal  in  sophistry ; 

And  I  believe  his  conscience,  like  his  tongue, 

Exactly  true,  when  there's  no  motive  by  ; 
You  may  consider  your  attractions  flung 

Where  he  has  flung  a  dozen  such,  in  youth, 

And  what  should  make  him  fear  to  tell  the  truth  I" 

LXXXVI. 

He  rose,  and  saw  that  fiery  woman  pacing 
As  woman  paces,  up  and  down  the  room, 

And  with  no  word  of  parting  notice,  placing 
His  cloak  about  him,  and  a  hat  whose  gloom 

Shaded  his  face  completely,  was  just  facing 
The  outer  entrance,  as  the  sullen  boom 

From  some  church  tower,  told  the  hour  of  ten, 

And  gone  before  it  passed  away  again. 

LXXXVII. 

I  shall  not  enter  in  the  bloody  temple 
Of  France's  horrors,  that  eternal  stage 

Has  been  so  often  trodden ;  I  like  hemp  ill, 
And  hate  the  guillotine's  unpleasant  edge, 

And  think  a  place  in  history's  crowded  camp,  ill 
Purchased  by  signing  any  kind  of  pledge, 

To  tell  the  truth,  or  do  the  truth,  or  keep 

Any  conditions ;  so  I'll  lake  a  leap  i 

LXXXVIII. 

Before  the  final  canto ;  but  just  now 

I'll  dabble  in  the  present  policy 
Of  France's  revolutionizers ;  how 

They  played  the  cogged  dice  of  diplomacy, 
And  why  Saint  Just  cared  what  the  final  bow 

Of  Juan  to  Marie  chanced  to  be, 
And  how  the  leaders  pulled  the  leading  string, 
To  free  the  trap  before  they  touched  the  spring. 

LXXXIX. 

The  purity  in  style,  the  silver  tone, 

If  we  may  call  it  so,  that  fashion  wears, 
When  carried  properly,  having  a  throne 
That  even  royalty  but  seldom  shares, 
I  Makes  up  an  aristocracy  unknown, 
Uncounted,  in  all  national  affairs, 
And  governs,  in  a  national  well  being, 
More  than  the  world  have  any  tact  for  seeing. 
I 

XC. 

And  commonly,  the  very  elevation 

Is  the  safeguard ;  not  as  the  saying  runs, 

It  being  well  agreed  that  rank  and  station 
Make  men  a  better  target  for  all  guns ; 

It  maybe,  that  in  many  a  relation, 

The  high  are  looked  upon  as  Heaven's  sons, 

Regarded  as  a  something,  higher  worth 

Than  those  who  plod  upon  the  meaner  earth. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


41 


XCI. 
Naught  else  but  this  devotion  saves  one  hour 

Royalty ;  naught  but  this  keeps  up  to-day, 
At  decent  standing,  men  whose  real  power 

To  force  respect,  has  long  since  passed  away ; 
Men  recollect  that  once  there  was  a  flower 

Where  now  a  paltry  weed,  useless  and  gay, 
Flaunts  in  its  pnde  :  and  so  they  let  it  stand, 
Lest  they  should  hold  a  sacrilegious  hand. 

XCII. 

And  France,  no  doubt,  had  her  idolatry  : 

'Tis  certain  that  she  had  enough  when  loose — 

Idolatry  for  guilt  and  blasphemy — 
And  from  the  use,  no  doubt,  grew  the  abuse  : 

And  the  few  demagogues,  who  stealthily 
Plotted  the  downfall  of  all  olden  use, 

Knew  that  they  must  clip  off  the  common  people's 

Habit  of  looking  up  to  certain  steeples  ! 

XCIII. 

They  knew  that  while  a  spark  of  that  romance 
Which  gave  protection  to  the  higher  classes, 

Lingered  among  the  lower  classes,  France 
Would  not  be  red  enough  with  gory  faces  ! 

And  so  they  watched,  as  with  an  eagle  glance, 
To  cast  a  leader  from  the  people's  graces, 

And  exile,  from  necessity  or  choice, 

All  who  might  help  to  calm  the  people's  voice. 

XCIV. 

As  Juan  had  won  all  hearts,  he  had  won 

The  hearts  of  Paris:  at  his  carriage-window 

Were  heads  uncovered  to  the  noonday  sun 
With  the  obsequiousness  of  a  Hindoo  ; 

None  seemed  to  love  the  people  more,  and  none 
Was  more  loved  by  them  (all  this  flattery  can  do), 

None  would  have  answered  quite  so  well  in  linking 

Both  ranks  together,  to  keep  both  from  sinking. 

xcv. 

Saint  Just  had  watched,  and  riot  alone,  to  find 

One  opportunity  by  which  to  break 
The  golden  chain  which  really  seemed  to  bind 

Juan  and  the  Parisians  neck  by  neck — 
And  found  it :  the  strong  whisper  which  assigned 

Juan  to  Ella  Durosnel,  would  make 
The  moving  point,  when  he  could  once  awaken 
The  jealousy  of  her  he  had  forsaken  ! 

XCVI. 

In  this  he  had  succeeded  :  the  bold  girl 

Marie,  in  whose  very  masculine 
And  vigorous  thought  Juan  had  loved  to  curl 

The  passions  loosened  when  kept  always  fine ; 
She  would  not  brook  the  falling  of  one  pearl 

From  the  proud  diadem  she  loved  to  twine ; 
Sho  knew  no  difference  between  red  blood, 
And  cared  not  for  pure  water  or  pure  mud  ! 

XCVII. 

Saint  Just  had  scarcely  left  the  house,  when  she 
Sprang  up,  and  smoothing  down  her  heavy  hair, 

Stood  on  the  doorstep,  most  apparently 
To  cool  her  hot  brow  in  the  chilly  air — 

And  waited,  maybe,  in  the  hope  that  he 

Might  once  more  turn  his  nightly  footsteps  there ; 

But  found  no  more  of  him,  except  the  note, 

Slight  and  expressive,  that  it  seems  he  wrote — 

XCVIII. 

To  tell  her — nothing — but  a  kind  of  hint 
That  she  need  not  expect  him  any  more  ! 

The  marriage,  whose  most  virtuous  intent 
Forbade  him  to  recross  that  threshold-door, 


]  He  left  her  to  find  out  when  done,  in  print ! 

The  note,  it  seems,  was  written  just  before 
He  tumbled  into  bed  at  half  past  two, 
Where  I  shall  follow,  as  this  canto's  through  ! 


CANTO  VII. 
I. 

'Tis  the  last  canto  :  I'm  very  tired 

Even  of  Literature,  my  old  friend ; 
The  labor  whose  enthusiasm  fired 

My  spirit  first,  approaches  to  its  end  : 
And,  truly,  I  should  heavily  be  hired 

Before  I  would  go  back  again  and  lend 
So  much  of  youth  and  memory  again 
To  the  continuance  of  so  long  a  strain. 

II. 

The  labor  that  was  once  a  work  of  love, 
Has  grown  to  be  a  drudgery  :  look  back 

Only  two  cantos,  and  my  words  will  prove 
The  instability  on  which  we  pack 

Our  thoughts  and  feelings — how  like  Noah's  dove 
We  plead  to  be  allowed  the  olden  track, 

And  brought  quotations  for  authority 

To  prove  why  I  wrote  rhymes  so  constantly  ! 

III. 

It  is  the  curse  of  life,  to  spring  amain 

From  the  first  goal,  and  falter  ere  the  end, 

Dropping  beside  us  on  the  thirsty  plain 

The  heart's  blood  of  our  very  dearest  friend 

Who  strove  to  be  a  sharer  in  our  vain 
And  weary  struggle  ;  censure  or  commend 

As  the  world  may,  we  miss  the  friendly  tones 

That  were  the  first,  the  old  familiar  ones  ! 

IV. 

Could  we  be  sure  of  bearing  to  the  end 
All  who  set  out  with  us — could  we  but  show, 

To  every  one  of  them,  how  we  arose 

To  power,  or  pressed  on  through  pain  and  wo— 

Till  those  who  loved  should  smile  on  us,  and  those 
Who  scoffed  our  early  triumph,  learn  to  know 

That  we  were  no  presumptuous  fools  who  dared 

To  claim  an  honor  we  had  never  shared — 

V. 

Could  we  but  call  around  us  at  the  last 

All  who  had  known  us — youth  and  middle  age, 

From  whom  our  actions,  as  we  hurried  past, 
Had  won  a  moment's  plaudit  on  life's  stage, 

And  bid  them  look  upon  the  halo  cast 
Around  the  poet's  forehead  and  his  page, 

And  point  them  to  the  sunlight  on  our  sea, 

Showing  them  what  we  were,  not  hoped  to  be — 

VI. 

Could  we  do  this,  it  might  be  triumph  ;  but 
It  can  not,  may  not  be  so  :  every  year 

Have  mourning-trains  gone  wearily  to  put 
Our  fairest  and  our  bravest  on  the  bier, 

To  close  them  in  the  silent  grave,  and  shut 
The  heavy  sod  above  the  senseless  ear ; 

And  they  can  never  hear  what  we  so  long 

To  breathe  them,  in  a  gush  of  mellow  song  ! 


42 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


VII. 

We  shall  be  all  alone,  before  the  hair 

Grows  gray  upon  our  temples — we  shall  be 

Companionless  ;  but  not  before  harsh  Care 
Has  done  the  work  of  Time  and  Apathy, 

And  left  us  sadly  qualified  to  bear 

The  burial  of  Affection  !     This  from  me 

Thus  early— that  1  know  my  heart  is  palling, 

And  that  the  leaves  of  love  and  fame  are  falling  ! 

VIII. 

This — that  I  know  how  sadly  I  have  changed 
From  the  enthusiast  that  1  have  been — 

That  I  have  felt  my  warmest  thoughts  estranged 
From  the  one  only  love  that  knew  no  sin, 

And  that  in  the  poetic  field  I  ranged 
Once  eagerly,  the  very  flowers  begin 

To  look  like  weeds  and  rushes,  hardly  worth 

Stooping  to  pick  up  from  the  common  earth. 


The  few  scenes  that  remain  have  little  space 
For  me  to  dwell  on ;  yet  the  hours  that  flew 

O'er  Juan's  horizon,  the  last  few  days, 

Were  bright  with  Eden's  own  celestial  hue ; 

They  were  a  quiet  pause  in  Love's  hot  race — 
A  time  when  he  sat  silently  to  view 

The  close  of  his  amours,  as  he  believed, 

Truly,  in  part — though  fearfully  deceived. 

X. 

It  was  a  graceful  mansion,  although  plain 
And  free  from  ostentation,  where  the  fair 

And  sweet  young  Ella  hid  her  from  the  train 
Of  foppish  followers  who  circled  where 

Her  feet  had  lately  glided  :  light  and  vain 
To  that  fair  girl  were  all  the  pomp  and  glare 

Of  all  the  gay  saloons  of  Paris,  decked 

In  all  that  fashion  leads  you  to  expect. 

XI. 

It  was  a  graceful  mansion,  but  not  rich 
In  the  accustomed  splendor  of  the  time, 

But  wealthy  in  the  fine  old  memories,  which 
Had  made  its  owners  proud  with  many  a  rhyme, 

And  hung  proud  pictures  up,  in  many  a  niche, 
Of  names  that  never  had  been  stained  with  crime, 

Of  men  whose  names  are  set  on  history's  page 

In  all  the  glory  of  a  bygone  age. 

XII. 

That  mansion  told  alone  of  what  had  been 
The  portion  of  a  noble  line,  decayed — 

Whose  last  sole  representative  was  seen 
Purer  than  ever,  in  a  simple  maid, 

With  whose  blood  hundreds  would  have  mingled  in 
Blood  pure  as  in  a  monarch's  bosom  played ; 

Although  no  one,  who  stickled  for  a  fortune, 

But  would  have  reckoned  Ella's  as  a  short  one. 

XIII. 

An  orphan,  and  alone,  yet  noble  hands 
Had  taken  hers,  and  noble  eyes  been  cast 

Upon  her  head  in  kindness;  and  the  bands 

That  bound  her,  ere  her  earliest  years  were  past, 

Were  bonds  of  gratitude  for  names  whose  stands 
Were  high  in  royal  favor  to  the  last  : 

And  here  had  Juan  found  her  on  the  tide 

Of  fashion,  but  not  poisoned  with  its  pride. 

XIV. 

And  for  a  week  they  missed  her  from  the  halls 
Of  light  and  music — missed  her  from  the  dance — 

Missed  her  from  breakfasts  and  from  morning  calls  : 
And  tho'  they  thought  of  her  blue  eye  perchance, 


;  She  was  not  bound  so  in  the  feverish  thralls 
Of  fashion  as  to  court  the  general  glance, 
'  And  be  the  star  of  all  mankind,  when  one 
Had  grown  her  cynosure,  and  one  alone. 

XV. 

"  Love  in  a  cottage,"  say  you  ?     It  might  be 
Though  in  a  crowded  city:  the  loose  hours 

That  Juan  had  dashed  off  so  lavishly,       [flowers, 
Were  spent  beside  her  light  harp  wreathed  with 

As  she  sung  songs,  each  one  Love's  iullaby, 

And  he  told  tales  of  skies  more  bright  than  ours, 

Where  they  would  be  in  days  to  come,  and  pass 

Life's  summer  like  a  pleasant  song:  alas  ! — 

XVI.  . 

Alas  !  for  all  life's  broken  plans  ;   alas  ! 

For  all  that  once  we  might  have  been,  and  are  not; 
;  We  have  looked  forward  through  a  magic  glass 
To  sunny  islands  where  our  places  were  not, 
And  sung  sweet  songs  to  those  whom  we  let  pass, 
And  made  fond  vows  to  those  for  whom  we  care 
i  Alas  !  that  we  once  sung  such  songs  as  this,  [not. 
And  gave  the  spirit  to  another's  kiss  ! — 


Thou  art  mine  ! 
As  the  first  and  only  love 

I  have  borne  to  womankind — 
As  the  sunburst  from  above 

On  a  spirit  dark  and  blind ; 
I  call  thee  with  a  kiss, 

And  I  call  thee  with  a  tear, 
In  a  lay  so  wild  as  this — 

And  I  know  that  thou  wilt  hear. 


Thou  art  mine ! 
As  the  stars  belong  to  heaven, 

And  the  sunshine  to  the  earth — 
As  the  summer  dew  is  given 

To  the  flower  in  its  birth  : 
As  my  own  appointed  bride, 

In  whose  bosom  is  my  home, 
I  call  thee  to  my  side — 

And  I  know  that  thou  wilt  come ! 

XVII. 
Alas  !  that  all  this  confidence  was  altered 

By  some  few  changes,  to  the  following  ! 
Not  that  my  rhyming-horse  fell  down  or  faltered, 

Not  that  my  eagle  had  a  broken  wing, 
But  that  I  found  myself  slightly  Sir  Waltered— 

Chiselled,  cut  out,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing, 
And  sung  another  song,  as  nearer  fit 
My  feelings,  and  the  way  that  I  was  "  bit." 

XVIII. 

There  is  more  poetry,  no  doubt,  in  grief, 
And  so  the  second  is  of  course  the  best : 

Time  soothes,  but  writing  couplets  is  the  chief 
Corrector  of  all  fulness  in  the  breast — 

Letting  off  steam  is  ahvays  a  relief, 

And  takes  off  the  fandagos  from  the  chest ; 

And  I  shall  never  write  such  rhymes  again 

Till  I  get  up  another  "  real  pain  !" 

1. 
'Tis  the  last  blessing  I  shall  dare 

To  lay  upon  that  beauteous  head, 
Save  murmurings  in  the  muttered  prayer 

That  on  the  wild  night-wind  is  shed; 
I  shall  not  dare  again  to  speak 

My  thought  of  thee  to  mortal  ear, 
Save  as  the  fitful  meanings  break 

From  the  cold  lips  of  palsied  Fear ! 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


43 


2. 
For  thou  art  his  ! — They  say  'tis  crime 

To  think  of  thee  as  I  have  done, 
When  I  have  striven  so  long  a  time 

To  blend  our  feelings  into  one : 
They  say  I  must  not  look  on  thee 

To  drink  the  starlight  of  thine  eyes, 
And  that  my  words  no  more  must  be 

Borne  with  the  tales  of  summer  skies  ! 

3. 

They  say  thou  hast  no  love  for  me — 

No  altar  for  the  priceless  gems 
I  have  borne  home  from  land  and  sea 

To  deck  thy  zones  and  diadems  : 
For  thou  art  his  ! — and  thou  hast  given 

To  him  all  hope,  and  love,  and  prayer ; 
Thou  canst  not  spare  one  star  from  heaven 

To  him  who  may  not  enter  there  ! 

XIX. 

Alas  !  that  this  should  be  the  end  of  all 

Our  high-built  fabrics — crumbling  into  dust  ! 

And  bearing  down  our  spirits  in  their  fall 
To  the  long  weakness  of  a  broken  trust. 

But  joy  that  we  have  manhood  to  recall 
Our  spirits  back  from  solitude  and  rust, 

And  sing  unto  a  second  love  another — 

Holier,  fonder,  calmer  than  the  other  : — 

1. 

I've  sat  beneath  the  summer  moon, 

And  thought  it  autumn  light ; 
But — joy  for  my  returning  heart — 

It  looks  like  spring  to-night ! 
I  am  once  more  what  I  have  been, 

Ere  Grief  bowed  o'er  her  urn  ; 
And  dear  as  old  friends  hastening  back, 

Those  starry  lights  return  ! 

2. 
I've  sat  beneath  the  summer  moon, 

And  wept  departed  years — 
And  thought  of  eyes  that  ne'er  again 

Should  sparkle  through  their  tears  ! 
I  can  not  call  again  to  me 

The  flowers  that  died  last  year  : 
But  sweetly  we  have  filled  their  place, 

And  we'll  forget  them  here  ! 

XX. 

Joy,  when  we  can  recall  so  gloriously 
Part  of  our  vanished  idols,  and  can  sing 

The  same  old  songs,  beneath  another  sky, 
With  other  birds  calling  our  second  spring  ! 

Our  old  enthusiasm's  past,  but  joy 

That  we  have  mustered  fortitude  to  bring 

Back  half  the  truant  angels  that  are  gone ; 

Alas  !  for  those  who  never  call  back  one  ! 

XXI. 

Pardon,  me,  reader !  I  did  not  intend 

To  bore  you  with  old  thoughts  of  mine  and  hers; 
But  you  may  know  how,  without  our  command, 

Forgotten  feeling  wakes  again  and  stirs — 
How  we  take  by  the  button  our  old  friend 

The  Public,  and  pour  out  into  his  ears 
All  that  we  ever  did,  or  ever  missed, 
After  the  fashion  of  an  egotist. 

XXII. 
Love's  summer  is  near  autumn,  like  the  year's, 

And  they  should  know  it  whose  delicious  eyes 
Smile  on  their  coming  happiness  through  tears 

That,  wayward  and  unbidden,  seem  to  rise 


Without  a  reason. — Ella's  gentle  ears 

Had  heard  no  warning  thunder  in  the  skies, 
And  yet  her  heart  had  trembled  in  her  breast 
With  some  foreboding  dim  and  unexpressed. 

XXIII. 
And  as  they  sat  together,  the  last  eve 

Of  their  communion,  her  sweet  eyes  were  wet 
With  tears,  that  seemed  reluctant  yet  to  leave 

The  eyelids  where  like  crystals  they  were  set; 
And  round  him  Juan  felt  her  white  arms  heave, 

As  if  she  struggled  to  retain  him  yet, 
And  feared  to  find  him  gliding  from  her  arms — 
The  tenderest  of  a  woman's  fond  alarms. 

XXIV. 

I  deem  that  Juan's  thought  to  her  was  pure — 
Unstained  by  his  voluptuousness,  unstained 

By  the  dark  thoughts  and  wishes  which  allure 
The  fiery-moulded  and  the  fever-brained; 

With  him  the  sensual  must  still  endure, 

But  might  by  woman's  tenderness  be  chained — 

And  was,  no  doubt,  till  that  sweet  girl  had  less 

Of  headlong  passion,  more  of  tenderness — 

XXV. 

Than  he  had  ever  borne  to  womankind 
Before,  or  ever  bore  them  afterward. 

Were  not  our  spirits  commonly  so  blind, 
And  so  disposed  ever  to  disregard 

The  tokens  which  kind  Heaven  has  assigned 
To  lead  us  to  contentment  and  reward — 

We  might  find,  oftener,  one  upon  whose  breast 

Even  the  Tempter  might  be  lulled  to  rest ! 

XXVI. 
I  deem  that  in  that  hour  the  aneel  hovered 

Above  his  head,  and  that  had  nothing  turned 
The  bitter  spirit  backward,  and  uncovered 

The  fiery  furnace  where  his  passions  burned, 
The  gay  companion  and  the  pleasant  lover  'd 

Perhaps  have  left  the  lava  still  inurned 
That  never  flows  upon  a  second  course, 
But  it  sweeps  on  with  devastating  force  ! 

XXVII. 
Our  sins  are  visited — on  us  ? — Ay,  more  : 

On  those  who  had  no  share  in  them ;  the  train 
Of  Juan's  falsehood  to  Marie,  bore 

A  bitterness  to  sear  up  heart  and  brain; 
And  though  I  hate  to  wade  through  woman's  gore, 

I  speak  the  end,  in  agony  and  pain, 
Just  as  the  legend  tells  us — Ella's  fate 
Paid  heavily  for  "  good  resolves  too  late." 

XXVIII. 

I  have  not  planned  the  tale  myself— I  have 
But  gathered  and  continued  an  old  tale — 

Whose  thread  of  story,  changing  like  the  wave, 
Is  sung  and  told  in  many  a  sunny  vale, 

In  many  a  clime  and  language ;  I  would  crave, 
If  it  were  otherwise,  that  she  should  pale 

Beneath  neglect  and  coldness,  when  he  sickened 

With  her  love,  and  another  one  had  beckoned  ! 

XXIX. 

But  it  was  never  thus,  and  I  must  write 
As  truth  compels  me  ;  but  I  will  not  be 

Too  circumstantial  in  the  tale  of  fright 
That  I  have  gleaned  from  Juan's  history ; 

I  will  not  linger  on  it,  as  I  might, 

But  give  one  glance  of  hateful  memory 

To  the  first  shadow  of  the  bitter  blood 

That  followed  over  France  so  like  a  flood. 


44 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


XXX. 

Twas  night,  and  Juan  entered  the  dark  street, 
And  passing  onward  toward  Ella's  door, 

Saw  in  the  lamplight  a  dark  shadow  flit 
Across  the  street,  but  half  a  square  before, 

With  motion  as  of  one  who  feared  to  meet 
His  eye,  but  as  he  still  kept  on,  once  more 

The  figure  glided  backward,  near  the  place 

Where  he  must  pass,  and  met  him,  face  to  face. 

XXXI. 

One  glance  revealed  a  woman's  face,  the  next 
Showed  him  Marie's,  who,  as  he  passed  by — 

Half-sorrowful  at  meeting  her,  half-vexed 

To  meet  her  there — gazed  on  him,  with  an  eye 

That  under  the  bright  lamplight  looked  so  fixed 
And  cold  and  glassy,  that  he  heaved  a  sigh, 

Half  penitence,  it  might  be,  and  half  shame, 

And  half  of  something  else  that  had  no  name. 

XXXII. 

He  turned,  and  she  was  gone — and  he  passed  in 
The  mansion,  and  a  glow  of  mellow  light 

Came  through  the  inner  doorway,  that  had  been 
Apparently  left  open  for  his  sight ; 

And  then  he  paused,  thinking  how  warm,  within, 
Would  be  sweet  Ella's  greeting  him,  that  night, 

And  entered,  to  behold  a  sight  that  chilled 

Even  a  heart  like  his,  so  proudly  filled. 

XXXIII. 

Dead  in  her  woman's  beauty,  by  the  side 

Of  her  lone  harp  she  lay  !  her  dress  was  snow, 

Her  soft  brown  hair  dressed  as  if  she  had  tried 
That  evening,  to  be  all  the  lovelier  so ; 

But  the  fine  hair  was  loose,  and  the  red  tide 
Was  welling  from  her  bosom  calm  and  slow, 

And  the  soft  hand  was  red,  as  if  the  wound 

Had  gashed  it  e'er  the  softer  heart  it  found. 

XXXIV. 

Dead  in  her  woman's  beauty ;  dead,  yet  warm 

And  almost  breathing — telling  that  the  blow 
Whose  touch  had  brought  death  to  that  angel  form, 

Had  stopped  her  pulse  so  little  while  ago. 
None  knew  save  Juan,  whence  had  burst  the  storm, 

None  could  explain  for  him,  what  time  or  how 
The  blow  could  have  been  given — all  e'er  known 
Was — Ella's  being  left  an  hour  alone. 

XXXV. 
None  knew,  save  Juan,  and  he  never  told 

Even  of  one  suspicion,  so  it  passed 
To  be  a  wonder;  there  was  no  rich  gold 

Known  in  that  silent  house  to  be  amassed, 
That  could  have  tempted  robbery,  and  cold 

Deliberate  murder.     Wild  and  very  vast 
May  be  conjecture,  but  there  are  some  times 
When  it  is  faulted,  even  in  our  crimes. 

XXXVI. 

But  Juan's  heart  needed  no  outward  question 
To  tell  him  who  had  done  it;  the  one  glance 

From  that  wronged  woman's  eyes,  left  one  impres- 
sion 
That  sought  no  other  proof  from  after  chance — 

Told  him  how  fatal,  such  a  fiery  breast  in, 
Was  jealousy  (the  fiercer  in  such  haunts) — 

Told  him  her  blood  was  on  Marie's  hand, 

And  that  France  was  to  him  a  banished  land. 

XXXVII. 
I  know  not  if  in  hearts  like  his  there  beat 

The  agonies  that  torture  those  less  firm; 
I  know  not  if  the  treading  of  his  fcrt 

In  other  lands,  had  not  laid  down  the  worm  * 


Of  conscience  to  a  quiet — but  the  sweet 

And  cold  dead  face,  awoke  the  buried  germ, 
And  haunted  him,  as  if  his  own  misdeed 
Had  given  the  young  and  beautiful  to  bleed. 

XXXVIII. 

Could  he  but  have  recalled,  could  we  recall 
All,  anything — we  might  be,  and  might  not; 

Fate,  time,  and  circumstance,  have  raised  a  wall, 
To  fence  us  from  a  worse  (?)  or  better  (?)  lot ; 

But  could  he  have  struck  out  from  memory,  all 
That  made  his  own  share  in  this  tragic  plot, 

He  might  have  sorrowed  more,  but  writhed  far  less, 

For  self-accusing  is  all  bitterness. 

XXXIX. 

He  knew  that  his  own  crime,  in  the  reaction, 
Had  guided  the  quick  hand  of  jealousy — 

To  still  the  beating  heart,  whose  warm  affection 
Might  have  made  sunlight  of  his  destiny — 

He  knew  that  bitterly  the  recollection 
Should  rest  upon  his  bosom ;  it  may  be 

That  he  knew  more,  and  thought  of  blood  repaid 

Upon  the  hand  that  loosed  the  fatal  blade. 

XL. 

"  Tragedy,"  in  the  papers,  and  "  regret," 
Under  the  fashionable  head,  proclaimed 

That  all  France  was  at  liberty  to  bet 

Whether  the  murderer  would  be  ever  named, 

And  that  Don  Juan  was  no  longer  set 
Upon  the  pinnacle  where  he  had  beamed 

As  the  first  star  of  fashion  ;  he  was  seen 

Last  by  the  Frenchmen,  on  the  route  for  Spain. 

XLI. 

Few  were  his  farewells,  not  a  warm  "  good-bye" 
To  one  of  his  companions;  no  one  knew 

Save  Leila,  whither  he  had  gone,  or  why ; 
And  she  but  by  a  parting  line,  that  flew 

By  post  to  southern  France,  that  with  wet  eye 
She  silently  and  mournfully  read  through ; 

In  which  she  may  be  followed  by  as  many 

As  care  to  read  his  thoughts  to  her,  if  any. 

XLII. 
"  My  little  Leila  !  little  you  must  be, 

Although  a  woman  and  a  mother  now; 
In  truth  I  can  not  bring  myself  to  see 

What  may  be  seen  to-day  upon  your  brow; 
I  can  not  bring  myself,  quite  readily, 

To  think  of  anything  like  that  long  vow, 
For  one  who  seems  to  me  so  very  young, 
To  have  such  ripened  roses  round  her  flung. 

XLIII. 
"  My  little  Leila  !  I  took  up  the  pen 

To  say  farewell,  but  fell  to  thinking  slowly 
That  there  must  be  a  something  kept  from  men, 

But  given  unto  woman's  nature  wholly — 
That  tells  them  of  the  boundary  where  and  when 

They  must  leave  off  their  merry  melancholy, 
And  grow  domestic  and  all  that,  and  mind 
The  softer  interests  of  womankind. 

XLIV. 
"Had  I  possessed  this  knowledge,  I  might  be 

A  different,  and  perhaps  a  wiser  man  ; 
I  know  not  but  I  look  with  different  eye 

From  that  I  used  to,  upon  nature's  plan; 
It  may  be  that  I  think  it  vain  to  lie 

Always  beneath  my  mantle,  as  I  can, 
It  may  be,  that  if  I  could  once  retrace 
1  My  steps — I  might  seek  out  a  different  place, 


THE  REST  OP  DON  JUAN. 


45 


XLV. 

"  And  be  as  you  are,  Leila  !  good ;  no  matter 
The  time  is  past  now,  and  the  angel's  gone; 

A  few  months  have  done  very  much  to  batter 
The  temple  of  my  trust,  and  led  me  on 

Where  passion  always  leads,  if  you  will  let  her, 
Soiling  the  laurels  that  she  once  has  won; 

My  hand  is  loosened  from  the  bridle-rein 

That  I  shall  likely  never  hold  again. 

XLVI. 
"  I  never  shall  return  to  France,  my  foot 

Is  on  the  border  of  my  native  Spain ; 
Would  that  with  leaving  it,  I  could  uproot 

A1J  that  its  scenes  have  planted  in  my  brain, 
For  even  now  across  my  vision  shoot 

Wild  images  of  agony  and  pain 
That  are  not  fitting  for  your  gentle  eyes, 
And  must  be  stifled,  even  as  they  rise. 

XLVII. 

"  Look  not  for  me  in  Spain :  you  will  not  find 
One  trace  of  me,  or  know  me  if  you  do  ; 

I  may  be  near  you,  and  not  leave  behind 
Aught  to  remind  you  of  the  one  you  knew ; 

I  would  that  this,  my  farewell,  might  be  kind, 
And  that  it  might  appear  as  such  to  you ; 

I  have  one  promise  kept  as  all  should  be, 

And  that  is,  guarding  you  most  faithfully. 

XL  VIII. 

"There  must  be  something  in  farewells;  I've  had 

A  dozen,  but  I  never  took  before 
My  pen  to  write  one,  fondly,  truly  sad ; 

I  mind  that  I  received  one  that  I  wore 
Next  to  my  heart  some  time,  but  that  was  had 

When  I  was  younger,  some  eight  years  or  more ; 
I  read  it  leaving  Spain,  and  write  my  own 
On  its  frontiers,  returning  and  alone." 

XLIX. 

His  words  were  solemn,  far  too  solemn  for 
Gay  twenty-five  or  under;  and  my  tale 

Has  grown,  insensibly,  to  gliding  more 

Calmly  and  slowly  onward  through  the  vale 

Of  his  last  soft  emotions — but  life  wore 
More  sternness,  after  he  had  passed  the  pale 

Of  his  last  love,  and  so  my  words  must  be 

Splashed  more  with  reckless  wild  philosophy, 

L. 

Which  usually  is  mud ;  at  least  it  soils 
Garments,  and  blackens  linen,  and  in  short — 

If  driven  through  upon  a  canter,  spoils 
All  things  but  our  propensity  to  sport; 

In  short,  it  sticks  to  us,  as  various  oils 
Do  to  a  very  delicate  silk  skirt ; 

Philosophy  and  oil  being  at  some  pains 

Never  to  leave,  while  anything  remains. 

LI. 

Oh  recklessness  !  oh  wild  philosophy  ! 

Oh  merry  madness  !  I  address  ye  all ; 
How  villanously  you  have  petted  me, 

And  raised  me  up,  only  to  let  me  fall ; 
How  you  have  made  me  grow  outrageously 

In  spirit,  though  in  valor  very  small, 
How  you  have  stuck  to  me  like  wax,  and  will 
Stick  to  me  till  my  very  heart  is  still. 

LII. 
I  love  ye,  as  my  dearest  enemies,  [friends, 

Who   are,  of  course,  much   dearer   than   dear 
And  I  shall  sing  mad  ballads,  and  tell  lies 

Most  probably,  until  my  being  ends, 


For  where  my  bump  of  reverence  should  rise 

There  are  some  little,  very  little  bends, 
In  short,  some  slight  deficiencies ;  'tis  wrong, 
But  even  Fowler  lets  it  pass  along. 

LIII. 

And  through  what  scrapes  I've  followed  you,  what 
Repented  afterward,  I  have  let  out ;  [oaths, 

How  I  have  found  some  bruises  and  torn  clothes, 
In  various  man-traps  that  were  set  about ; 

How  I  have  done  what  sober  reason  loathes, 

Because  you  said  "  'twas  right  without  a  doubt," 

How  I  have  hurt  warm  feelings  for  your  sake, 

In  hearts  that  worlds  could  tempt  me  not  to  break  ! 

LIV. 

How  you  have  made  me  laugh  at  certain  parodies 
Of  sacred  things,  when  I  should  first  have  frown- 
ed, 

And  jump  at  wicked  things  for  sake  of  rarities, 
And  made  profane  jests,  only  for  the  sound, 

And  made  me  write  stuff,  that  in  sober  verity's 
Rhyme  without  reason,  and  bad  sense  unbound; 

How  you  have  helped  me  fill  the  last  four  stanzas 

With  "  vanity,"  as  Solomon's  old  man  says. 

LV. 

How  you  have  bored  the  public,  in  my  person, 
With  egotism  that  no  man  would  dare, 

Who  had  not  sins  enough  to  lay  his  verse  on, 
Or  had  for  criticism  one  moment's  care, 

But  critique  or  review  can  lay  no  worse  on 
My  pages,  than  I  am  prepared  to  bear — 

Nor  worse  than  I  can  say  about  myself, 

So,  if  you  please,  lay  that  pen  on  the  shelf. 

LVI. 

I  am  as  wild  as  ever,  but  less  reckless, 
Perhaps,  in  actions ;  you  may  well  begin, 

Maybe,  by  thinking  folly  a  good  necklace, 
But  hardly  fit  to  clothe  the  body  in ; 

I  let  out  some  two  hundred  oaths  a-week,  less, 
Perhaps  I  have  docked  off  some  heavier  sin, 

But  for  my  old  philosophy  and  madness — 

I  love  them  better,  as  I  have  more  sadness. 

LVII. 

And  Juan,  not  forgotten,  although  dropped, 
Must  be  dashed  over  rapidly,  he  was 

In  Cadiz  or  Madrid,  he  skipped  or  hopped 
As  one  moves  when  a  fatal  power  draws — 

From  northern  Spain  to  southern,  but  he  stopped 
Not  once  in  Seville,  with  or  without  cause ; 

His  round  of  dissipation  everywhere 

Led  him,  but  did  not  seem  to  lead  him  there. 

LVIII. 

It  was  as  he  had  said — his  hand  was  loosed 
From  off  the  bridle-rein  of  passion — wild 

And  fearful  were  the  stolen  arts  he  used 
To  win  unto  his  bosom  passion's  child, 

In  every  rank  and  station,  and  abused 
Fearfully,  was  the  beauty  that  yet  smiled 

Upon  his  brow,  despite  of  passion's  traces, 

A  lingering  touch,  yet,  of  the  early  graces. 

LIX. 

To  trace  his  course  minutely,  would  be  long 

And  little  fitting  for  my  history, 
It  would  be  one  long  epitome  of  wrong 

In  every  age,  condensed  most  fearfully — 
Passions  that  had  been  delicate,  though  strong, 

Were  delicate  no  longer;  in  the  free 
Admittance  at  the  last,  there  had  been  some 
That  only  with  old  age  and  sin  may  come. 


46 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


LX. 

But  still  there  was  that  latent  pride,  forbidding 
That  noble  blood  should  ever  be  disgraced ; 

His  name  beneath  another  one  was  hidden, 
As  his  intention  had  been  once  confessed  : 

And  wildly  as  his  steed  of  sin  was  ridden, 
The  arms  upon  his  'scutcheon  were  effaced — 

And  as  he  never  came  to  Seville,  none 

Knew  that  they  looked  upon  Don  Jose's  son. 

LXI. 

He  heard  of  France  :  heard  that  its  king  had  fallen 
Upon  the  block  raised  by  a  maddened  people, 

And  knew  that  he  had  shared  the  lot  of  all  in 
The  dangerous  elevation  of  a  steeple — 

So  nice  for  any  one  to  put  a  ball  in 

Who  chooses  to  sow  anarchy  and  reap  ill ; 

He  knew  that  France's  kingdom  and  his  own 

Were  very  much  alike — both  overthrown  ! 

LXIL 
Presto  ! — He  was  in  Seville.     I  am  going 

At  railroad  speed,  but  so  are  all  my  pages. 
They  say  that  stars  and  dashes  look  so  knowing, 

That  all  the  writers  use  them,  at  short  stages; 
I  have  so  many  numbered  stanzas  owing, 

To  earn  my  stipulated  scribbling-wages, 
And  must  have  so  much  room  as  there  is  yet, 
To  have  my  finish  elegantly  set ! 

LXIII. 
"  In  Seville  was  he  born,  a  pleasant  city," 

Says  Byron,  and  no  wonder  he  went  back  : 
His  birth  and  his  return  were  both  a  pity, 

Say  half  my  friends,  but  what  of  that  ?       *       * 


And  if  I  drop  him  there,  it  will  be  kind 
Not  to  have  left  him  on  the  road  behind. 

LXIV. 
A  feeling  such  as  animates  all  men 

When  coming  home  from  foreign  lands,  possessed 
To  look  as  Juan  had  once  looked,  again  [him  : 

And  with  more  care  than  usual  he  had  dressed 
In  the  rich  garb  of  Spanish  gentlemen  ;  [him 

When  once  again  the  orange-groves  oppressed 
With  their  old  fragrance,  and  he  stood  before  [him 
What  proved  to  be  his  own  deserted  door ! 

LXV. 

Few  knew  of  his  return  :  but  he  inquired 

Of  what  he  knew  before — his  mother's  death — 

Found  that  her  second  husband  had  retired 
With  the  etceteras— and  that  her  last  breath 

Had  been  some  good  advice  for  him,  inspired 
By  something  very  like  a  dying  faith 

In  his  not  being  "  altogether  quite" 

What  her  confessor  would  consider  right. 

LXVI. 

He  took  possession,  as  you  might  have  done 
In  the  same  case,  after  he  got  the  keys — 

Which  task,  however,  was  no  pleasant  one, 
And  not  accomplished  with  the  greatest  ease : 

An  old  housekeeper  had  enjoyed  the  run 

Of  the  house  lately,  when  she  seemed  to  please; 

From  her,  after  discovering  where  she  was, 

He  got  some  information,  and  much  sauce. 

LXVII. 
He  found  a  house  in  moderate  repair, 

Some  dust,  and  plenty  of  goo:!  furniture — 
Which  last  he  wondered  had  been  still  left  there 

With  such  an  old  housekeeper,  and  so  poor; 


He  hunted  up  some  decent  dining  ware, 

And  ate  a  lonely  dinner,  to  be  sure, 
Which  he  resolved  to  mend  with  better  kettles, 
Some  company,  and  rather  more  of  victuals  ! 

LXVIII. 

There  were,  in  truth,  about  the  silent  place 
Some  memories  not  altogether  pleasant — 

Some  mirrors  where  he  he'd  seen  his  boyish  face 
Look  far  less  sallow  than  it  did  at  present; 

And,  looking  where  he  ran  his  younger  race, 
The  tokens  of  the  past  time  were  incessant — 

Pictures,  and  books,  and  doors,  and  everything, 

Whose  unchanged  looks  shows  out  Time's  darkened 
wing ! 

LXIX. 

An  open  house  he  judged  the  quickest  thing 

To  start  up  popularity  :  men  like, 
It  seems,  to  drink  from  almost  any  spring 

But  their  own  pockets  ;  I  think  I  could  strike 
The  presidential  chair  at  half  a  fling, 

If  I  could  only  "  do  the  dinners  thick  !" 
Men's  stomachs  are  perhaps  as  tender  as 
Their  consciences,  and  more  :  but  let  that  pass. 

LXX. 

French  cooks,  they  say,  are  quite  omnipotent ; 

I  do  not  doubt  it :  French  wines  are,  I  know; 
I  recollect  a  kind  of  mock  lament 

Written  by  somebody,  some  time  ago, 
Who  had  without  a  bit  of  use,  been  sent 

To  Oxford,  and  a  parliament  or  so, 
But  dropped  off  wofully  in  popularity 
Because  his  dinners  lacked  sufficient  rarity  ! 

LXXI. 

Another,  with  ten  miles  of  dining-room, 

And  sixteen  cooks,  had  spoken  sixteen  words 
In  twenty  years,  and  served  up  as  they  come 

The  cattle  from  about  five  hundred  herds- 
French  dishes  that  I  quite  forget  the  sum, 

And  various  unheard-of  kinds  of  birds — 
Had  been  elected  by  grand  acclamation 
A  standing  honor  to  his  grateful  nation  ! 

LXXII. 

All  which  goes  very  leisurely  to  prove 

That  palates  are  more  powerful  than  brains, 

And  that  the  great  majority  best  love 

To  have  their  ribs  fattened  with  extra  pains, 

Shakspere  says  that  activity  will  move 

The  intellect  no  longer,  when  sense  reigns; 

Which  I  believe,  by  noticing  that  dinner 

Invariably  makes  my  thoughts  come  thinner. 

LXXIII. 
And  if  I  live  till  forty,  I  shall  be 

An  old  man  of  a  most  enormous  girth, 
Because  I  shall  grow  old  most  speedily, 

And  eat  all  the  good  things  I  find  on  earth. 
To  keep  off  thinnness  and  misanthropy, 

Which,  after  all,  are  very  little  worth 
Except  to  make  us  write  some  fine  detesting, 
And  look  particularly  interesting. 

LXXIV. 

However — all  the  noble  blood  in  Seville 
Was  called  to  dinner  on  the  seventh  day 

Of  Juan's  second  residence  ;  the  evil 

That  had  so  seared  his  brow,  was  washed  away 

By  forced  hilarity,  and  for  the  revel 

His  spirits  had  assumed  a  graceful  play — 

Such  as  had  been  his  srand  characteristic, 

Before  he  grew  so  old  in  years,  and  mystic. 


THE  REST  OF  DON  JUAN. 


47 


LXXV. 
Juan  was  popular  at  once,  his  wit 

His  cookery,  and  more  than  all,  his  wine, 
Were  voted  excellent,  and  many  a  hit 

Gallant  and  gay,  was  heard  flung  down  the  line 
Of  guests  beside  his  table ;  lamps  were  lit 

Toward  evening,  and  the  nectar  of  the  vine 
Grew  finer,  and  some  tales  were  told,  and  some 
Inquiries  made,  of  revels  yet  to  coine. 

LXXVI. 
One  told  that,  something  like  a  week  before, 

The  Donna  Julia  (second  name  not  mentioned), 
Had  been  installed  as  Lady  Abbess  over  [ed, 

The  convent  where  at  first  she  had  been  pension- 
Described  the  close  and  careful  dress  she  wore, 

And  how  she  had  been  very  good-intentioned, 
And  mentioned  as  a  model  of  pure  piety 
By  all  who  liked  conventual  society. 

LXXVH. 

One  told  of  runaways,  and  one  of  fights, 
And  one  of  great  discoveries  in  the  moon  ; 

One,  that  the  southern  French  had  got  their  rights, 
And  probably  the  world  would  have  them  soon ; 

Some  spoke  of  ghosts  upon  bright  moonlight  nights, 
And  some  declared  they'd  best  be  let  alone; 

While  last,  but  not  the  least,  one  tale  was  told, 

That  made  the  rest  seem  very  stale  and  old. 

LXXVIII. 

And  that  was — (sotto  voce) — yesterday 
A  new  discovery  had  been  made ;  the  line 

Of  statues  in  the  great  old  cemetery 
Had  one  new  pedestal  put  to  them — fine 

In  execution,  but  no  statue  lay 

Upon  it,  and  they'd  just  begun  the  nine 

Accustomed  days  of  wondering  who  the  deuce 

Would  have  his  statue  honored  by  its  use. 

LXXIX. 

It  was  well  known  in  Seville,  that  no  dust 
Was  ever  buried  there,  except  nobility, 

And  no  man  took  his  burial  upon  trust 
And  raised  a  statue  to  his  own  gentility; 

And  as  a  natural  consequence,  there  must 

Be  some  rich  blood  waitins  for  death  to  spill  it ;  he 

Who  toM  the  story,  vowed  that  he  had  seen 

Things  quite  as  strange  when  he  was  seventeen : 

LXXX. 

Which  date  had  fallen  sixty  years  before,     [merry, 
It  ransed  toward  midnight,  and  the  guests  were 

And  Juan's  face  flushed  deeper  as  he  swore 
To  things  that  sober  men  had  judged  contrary; 

Twelve  !  and  in  striking,  opened  wide  the  door, 
And  entered  one  guest  unexpected,  very, 

A  man  of  looks  that  seemed  to  be  unknown, 

As  greeting  hand  was  offered  him  by  none. 

LXXXI. 

His  dress  was  rich,  yet  dark  as  midnight,  slashed 
In  places,  with  red  lining,  a  close  boot 

On  either  leg,  revealed  a  spur  that  clashed 
And  clattered  as  he  walked,  but  the  whole  suit 


Seemed  stained  with  travel,  as  if  he  had  dashed 

Through  mud  and  mire,  on  horseback  or  on  foot, 
And  from  the  cloak  that  fell  behind  him,  looked 
A  sword-hilt,  with  the  end  extremely  hooked. 

LXXXII. 

A  face  of  fifty  years,  with  one  large  scar 
Over  the  temple,  and  the  heavy  beard 

Cut  close  and  carefully,  as  if  for  war — 

Beneath  his  heavy  wide-brimmed  hat  appeared ; 

Dressed  very  much  as  opera  bandits  are 
Before  they  happen  to  be  shot  or  speared ; 

He  strode  in  with  a  step  exceeding  wide 

Along  the  table,  up  to  Juan's  side, 

LXXXIII. 

And  stooping  low,  whispered  into  his  ear 
A  word  or  two  that  made  him  turn  and  grip 

His  sword-hilt,  and  then  rising  with  an  air 
Of  pride,  half  anger,  and  a  haughty  step, 

And  something  sounding  like  a  backward  prayer 
Breaking,  half-muttered,  from  his  closing  lip — 

He,  Juan,  with  the  stronger  just  before, 

Strode  down  the  hall,  and  out,  and  closed  the  door. 

LXXXIV. 

The  guests  drank  on,  the  wine  was  good,  and  they 
Were  drunk  enough  for  any  men  in  reason; 

They  heard  not  what  the  stranger  had  to  say, 
And  held  it  granted  that  some  trifling  laison 

Had  left  Don  Juan  some  slight  bill  to  pay 

In  blood,  or  that  his  purse  had  needed  easing, 

And  thinking  little  of  their  absent  host, 

They  would  have  drunk  a  bumper  to  his  ghost. 

LXXXV. 

But  the  wit  lagged,  and  when  two  hours  had  gone, 
And  Juan  came  not  back,  some  fifty  stares 

Were  flung  around;  the  seat  he  had  sat  on 
Was  looked  at,  with  some  other  empty  chairs, 

The  soberest  asked,  "Where  disappeared  the  Don  1" 
The  drunkest  answered,  "Taken  unawares;" 

Some  peeped  out  at  the. key-hole,  and  one  went 

Outside,  but  knew  not  what  the  mystery  meant. 

LXXXVI. 

To  cut  the  story  short,  they  waited  morning, 
And  half  next  day,  but  saw  no  more  of  him; 

And  then  one  gave  a  slow  mysterious  warning — 

That  they  had  noticed  how  the  lamps  burnt  dim 
j  When  the  tall  stranger  entered;  all  doubts  scorning, 
One  had  smelt  brimstone  at  the  very  time; 

And  taking  all  these  plausible  suggestions, 

Where  the  Don  went  to,  no  one  ever  questions. 

LXXXVII. 

.  One  thing  is  certain,  that  that  very  day 
The  cemetery  was  visited,  and  there 
!  Upon  the  pedestal  we  spoke  of — lay 

A  figure  of  the  Don,  as  fresh  and  fair 
As  ever  marble  imitated  clay, 

Dressed  as  he  sat  that  night  upon  his  chair; 
The  evil  spirit,  when  the  heart  is  sold, 
May  just  as  well  step  forward  and  take  hold. 


THE    END. 


YC159185 


